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SOUL TOYS 




Books by 

ALVIN D. HERSCH 

Law Books 


Hersch’s Michigan Chattel Mortgages. 
Michigan Corporation Law (Associated 
with McGregor and Bloomer). 


Novels 
Soul Toys 


SOUL TOYS 


BY . ' 

ALVIN D.' HERSCH 



BOSTON 


RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 






Copyright, 1923, by Richard G. Badger 


All Rights Reserved 




Made in the United States of America 


The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 




TWO BEAUTIFUL SOULS 


CARRIE AND BLANCHE 

IN LOVING THANKFULNESS FOR 
THE DEVOTION, COMPANIONSHIP, AND 
LOVE THEY SHOWERED UPON 
ME DURING THEIR SHORT 
SOJOURN ON THIS 


EARTH 


In the WHIRLPOOL of FATE, the im¬ 
mortal SOUL like an impassive Buddha, re¬ 
gards its playthings: Men and Women sinking 
in the water’s swirl to a bottomless pit of un¬ 
satiated desires; rising on the waves of attained 
wishes; circling through Birth, Love, Marriage, 
Divorce, Death, back to Birth again; dashing 
one against the other! Strange encounters! 
Wives and mistresses—Nuns and prostitutes— 
Priests and libertines—Saints and sinners! 
SOUL TOYS for the Unborn! 


CONTENTS 


PART PAGE 

I The World of Passion. 9 

II The Universe of Business.35 

III The Continent of Soul Life .... 49 

IV Clashing Worlds.79 

V Seas of Pleasure.135 

VI Mountains of Love.185 

VII Shifting Winds. 203 

VIII The Whirlpool of Fate. 267 

IX The Heaven of Motherhood. 307 













“Let us pay with our bodies for our souls’ desire! ” 

—Theodore Roosevelt. 

/ 


Part I 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 





SOUL TOYS 


CHAPTER I 

New York and Paris, twin capitals in the World of Passion! 
Ever producing and molding world citizens, and bowing 
allegiance only to King Passion and Queen Love! 

In the process of being molded, Clare Emerson sat on the 
edge, of a table in the palm-fenced tea room of the Hotel 
Modore, lightly swinging her silken-clad limbs and daintily 
puffing a cigarette, held to her lips as though a rose whose 
fragrance she was enjoying, and gazing out into the busy 
lobby. Her blue spangled evening gown seemed part of her 
slight but well rounded figure, with its crown of bobbed 
golden hair. Her blue eyes danced merrily as she turned to 
her companion, uptilting her peach-like cheeks and small, 
perfectly formed features. 

“You are hardly dressed to take me anywhere,” she mur¬ 
mured, as though answering a remark of the man beside her. 

The latter looked down at his loose fitting Norfolk outing 
suit and his white shoes, then felt his soft collar. He was 
tall and broad shouldered; muscular but slender and well 
knit. As he straightened himself, he looked the typical 
athlete. 

“I guess you are right,” he gave reluctantly the result of 
his observation, “but I never think much about clothes. 
Clare, do they make such a difference ? ” 

“Now, Jean Wildner, you know I would be the laughing 
stock of all New York, if I went with you to the theatre in 


11 


12 


SOUL TOYS 


that outfit—not that I care,” the girl added hastily, “but there 
are certain conventions to which one must conform, certain 
things that simply aren’t done.” 

As she smiled, his bronzed face with its arched brows, 
serious, penetrating eyes, and sensitive mouth, seemed good- 
naturedly to speak rebellion at these social necessities, like 
an overgrown boy who begs for long pants. He shook his 
head in annoyance, his thick light hair tumbling about. 

“You do not seem to live up to them yourself,” he pointed 
to her cigarette, “I can’t see why we must recognize the silly 
rules of past generations. We live to-day, why not govern 
our own selves?” he spoke with conviction, more asserting 
than questioning. 

“Really, smoking is quite proper nowadays,” she insisted, 
smiling still, “but your little speech might have come from 
your brother’s stock. He always uses it against my protest at 
his ‘kiss me/ his usual demand even in public places. I almost 
have to hold him off at arm’s length. He too, says, ‘What do 
we care for conventions?’ but in a little stronger language. 
Anyway, I couldn’t go with you to-night, because I promised 
Cornie to see how fast he can drive his new Mercer. But 
truly if you were dressed now I might have run away and 
played with you—but here he comes with his body-guard.” 
She turned to the men approaching with a hearty, “Hello 
boys! How are the Heart-Mates to-night?” 

Cornelius M. Wildner, Jr., in an immaculate tuxedo, 
flanked on either side by his ever attendant friends, James 
Vanduyne, familiarly called Jim, and Edward Philbrick, 
known as Eddie, came toward the couple. As if trained in 
a chorus, together they said, “Glad to see you Clare,—how 
are you, Jean?” 

Where is Clay?” asked Clare. “You know when I 
christened you the Heart-Mates, I expected you always to be 
together. And how are the Soul-Mates ?” she asked as she 
turned to Jean. 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


13 


“They are waiting for their ex-officio member to attend 
a meeting,” he said laughingly. 

“One has to be invited you know,” was her answer, 
“because I am the name-giver does not give me free 
admission.” 

“Look at the devil!” Eddie exclaimed as he pointed to 
Cornie. The latetr had a habit of passing his hands repeat¬ 
edly through his hair when he was annoyed or excited, and 
his bushy black locks, parted carefully in the center, when 
fluffed up looked like two horns. He glanced into a nearby 
mirror and smoothed his disheveled hair. 

“Take you choice, Clare; the devil,” Eddie gave Cornie a 
thump on his back, “or the saint,” as he did the same to 
Jean. “They both fall, sooner or later.” 

Clare was annoyed at the way Jean was being embarrassed 
and felt that it was because she was with him. Turning to 
him she said, “Now run along, this is the night that I have 
been asked to attend the meeting of the Heart-Mates, so 
good-bye.” 

At once, with a nod to the others and a wave of the hand 
as he approached the door, Jean left the hotel. 

Hardly had he departed when Jim blurted out, “I don’t 
see how you can pay any attention to that boob, Clare. He 
is too highbrow for me.” 

“Remember he is my brother,” interjected Cornelius. 
“And if he is odd, I will not stand for any talk like that 
about him.” 

“He has observed the golden rule, till he’s become the 
golden fool,” Eddie contributed scornfully. 

“You poll-parrot! ” was the epithet Cornie angrily threw 
at him. 

“Now boys, stop your quarreling. You know Jean is a 
perfectly dandy fellow, and I like him ever so much,” as¬ 
serted Clare. “But where are you going to take me this 


14 


SOUL TOYS 


evening, or are we going to stay here all night discussing 
Jean’s personality?” 

T beg your pardon, Clare,” said Cornelius, “we believe 
we have planned a very pleasant evening, the boys are going 
to meet Horto and Tillie; later, Clay is going to bring his 
sister, and we are all going to run down to Long Beach and 
dance, and you will have a chance to see how my Mercer 
acts.” 

“How wonderful! ” enthused the girl; “I will hurry up¬ 
stairs, get my cape and be ready in a moment.” 

After she had left them, Jim said to Cornie, “Your brother 
seems to have a stand-in; if you aren’t careful, he will cut 
you out.” 

“I am not afraid,” was the quiet reply; “but I can't un¬ 
derstand what she sees in him. He bores me to death, for all 
he talks about is soul desires, perfection of mind, and Hell 
knows what! ” 

“Well,” said his companion, “they seem to fall for that 
stuff, but I didn’t think a girl as full of pep as Clare, would 
do so. Here she comes now.” 

They went out together, Clare and Cornie climbing into 
the new Mercer, while the others went to call for their re¬ 
spective partners. 

Skillfully threading his way through the heavy traffic, Cor¬ 
nie soon was speeding along the Merrick Road. As they 
left the crowded city behind them Clare unconsciously be¬ 
gan to feel that the silent man beside her, all attention to 
the mechanism of his new car, might in reality be his 
brother Jean. She recalled the many rides that she and the 
latter had taken, each silently immersed in thought too deep 
for expression, even to the other. Suddenly, as they slowed 
down in passing through Jamaica, Cornie broke the silence. 

Some car, eh? I let her out on that last smooth stretch to 
seventy miles; bet you didn’t think it was over forty.” 

Clare simply nodded her head, but thought, “That is the 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


15 


difference between them. This one does not see the green 
grass, the tall stately trees, the sky or clouds, only speed, 
speed! He wants to rush like this through life.” 

“We will make it in forty minutes at this rate,” he ex¬ 
claimed excitedly. 

Clare loved speed; to drive fast, fly high, and dive deep; 
but she never forgot the beauty of her surroundings or lost 
interest in her companions. To-night, this rushing seemed 
frivolous and foolish. She almost longed for Jean to whis¬ 
per the beauties of the universe to her. 

Finally the car shot up to the “Nassau,” and they entered 
the lobby to find that they had preceded the others' of their 
party. 

“We are going to ‘Castles-by-the-Sea’ to dance,” Cornie 
said, “but let’s stroll along the ocean before we go there; 
we have loads of time.” 

“I simply adore the ocean,” asserted Clare, “it seems so— 
so everlastingly human. Did you ever notice, Cornie, it 
always looks the same, one wave after the other, just as we 
always retain our same outward features. Still at times it 
is tempestuous, the waves roar, reach heights which seem 
impossible, and then sink down again to calmness and 
smoothness. We too, have our moods, our stormy times— 
our moments of grandeur and of despondency—of calmness 
and quietude.” 

“You talk like Jean,” was the curt response, “I can’t see 
anything but water, mighty fine to go bathing in, and sailing 
and motor-boating when its’s smooth, and dandy to fish in, 
but a hell of a place when it’s rough. I’m strong for wet 
stuff, but give me Mr. Dryland every time. I get sea-sick 
without much hesitation.” 

“You old materialist! ” Clare dubbed him laughingly. 
“You are incurable. Surely, you must enjoy the ocean’s 
salty fragrance,” as she breathed deeply. 

“Well, this mushy stuff of my brother’s makes me sick. 


16 


SOUL TOYS 


I love beauty—in women—yes—and in men too. I love 
statuary and pictures of human beings. To me, there is 
nothing higher, more beautiful than the human form. But 
I can’t see anything in pictures of houses or flowers or 
whatnot, and I can’t rave about my soul—when I don’t 
know whether I have one or not.” 

“Oh, the human form is lovely, adorable, of course, but 
you surely must see the beauty of the rose and the balancings 
of the clouds and all the wonders of nature,” she returned 
seriously. 

“I take those things for granted. We do not make a 
fuss about our breathing, our smelling and other senses, 
why only of everything we see? We have the perfect form 
of nature in a beautiful woman. Why bother about anything 
else ? ” 

“But women are not all there is in the world,” the girl 
suggested. “And there is a beauty in feeling too—for 
instance—in the enjoyment of good music.” 

“I only like jazz,” the man retorted. “The female form 
is the perfection and end of the sunshine and the flowers, 
the water and the air. All helped to make woman what she 
is to-day—the highest expression of nature—with a perfect 
form and a beautiful face—what more can one ask? Clare, 
you are to me that final word,” he finished wistfully. 

“Flatterer! You know I am too thin to be a ‘perfect 36’ 
and we would better be getting on to the ‘Castles’ or the rest 
of the crowd will wonder what has become of us. They 
surely have gone there by now.” 

“Not before I ask you to be my wife! Clare, you know 
I adore you!” he avowed, grasping her arm impulsively. 

“Oh Cornie, that is just it, you adore me—you say! You 
worship every fair looking girl, but that isn’t love! No, 
Cornie, please don’t ask me to answer you now, and do let 
my arm go, you hurt! ” 

“You must realize that to me, adoration is love. I can 












THE WORLD OF PASSION 


17 


give you everything—not only now, but you know Dad is 
pretty old and there are only Jean and I to share his millions. 
Let me make you the best dressed girl in America! You 
don’t know what unique ideas I have in girls’ clothes— 
you ought to see what I have designed—and jewels! Say, I 
would be Tiffany’s best customer for you!” He held out an 
alluring bait. “Why not say yes? Do say yes! You will 
be sorry if you don’t.” His voice as he finished sounded 
like the whine of a wolf, hungry for its prey. 

“Not now, I couldn’t—maybe some day. Something 
seems to tell me, intuition or foreboding I believe it is called, 
that I will say ‘yes’ sometime, but not now,” Clare answered 
thoughtfully. 

“You called my crowd Heart-Mates, because we are 
always seeking to find the perfect girl. Why not be my 
Heart-Mate?” He feverishly continued his urging, not 
sensing her indifference to his pleadings. 

“I called them Heart-Mates because they seek only the 
perfect body; so your heart seeks a mate for your passions, 
not your soul! ” she retorted sharply. 

The effect of her words was electrical in the swiftness 
of the reply they brought. “I suppose you want a Soul- 
Mate like Jean; that is why you called his bunch Soul- 
Mates,” he sneered. 

“Don’t be nasty, Cornie, I do like Jean, and I like you 
too. Jean really seeks a Soul-Mate, his whole life is 
beautiful. What I want—my soul desire—is to find a real 
mate, a Heart and Soul-Mate, mind and matter; do you 
understand ? A man who is not one-sided but all-sided—not 
perfect but human and natural. Come, we are a long way 
from the ‘Castles/ almost down to the ‘Brighton.’ We must 
hurry or they will think your wonderful new car trailed 
behind their old busses.” Clare spoke lightly to relieve the 
tension. 

“You may pay dearly for your soul desire!” Cornie 


18 


SOUL TOYS 


warned her solemnly; but the girl only shrugged her 
shoulders, as if to say she did not count the risk. 

As they proceeded rapidly along the cement walk they 
were being discussed by their waiting friends. “Clare is 
certainly one fine girl/’ remarked Jim Vanduyne. “She 
is what I call the typical up-to-date, modern American girl. 
Her folks are no end rich, but she isn’t the least bit snobbish. 
Her college course seemed to broaden her and still let her 
retain her sweet feminine character, instead of stamping her 
an over-educated high-brow.” 

“Listen to the oration,” laughingly shouted Attilie Freer, 
always called Tillie by her intimate friends. “Someone has 
said, ‘American men love to hear themselves express their 
own opinions better than anything else.’ There is the horrid 
example! ” 

“I wouldn’t complain if he’d say such fine things about 
me, behind my back, I’ll tell the world,” observed little Meta 
Murray. 

“You know all men love little girls,” Eddie teased her, 
“and we are no exception.” 

This dainty whisp of femininity was attired in an orchid 
colored organdy frock with hat to match. Her complexion 
was also the same shade; this effect being caused either 
from the reflection of her costume or some touch added to 
nature. 

“No shrinking violet, but an expensive orchid, that little 
lady is,” Jim commented. 

“Well what about us? ” asked Tillie, as she looked toward 
Hortense Leaman, usually called Horto. “Are we two nebs 
not worthy of the gossip of your lordships?” 

“Why you Titian-haired beauty—you symphony in blue!” 
exploded Jim, as he looked at Tillie. Then as he turned to 
Horto, “And you baby doll with the big rolling eyes, the 
lady in black, what could we say about you, that has not 
already been said a million times? Our hats are off to the 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


19 


best examples of the genus American flapper now extant,” he 
continued. “Who does not appreciate the confidant carriage, 
the daring clothes, the elaborate make-up, and realize that 
you have added to the beauty, as well as the gayety, of the 
world? Look at the pictures of our mothers, God bless 
them, in their girlhood days. Can you conceive of your¬ 
selves in cotton stockings, skirts dragging along the ground, 
hair in tight little knots or big pompadors—and shiny noses 
and white faces ? ” 

“They surely were prim and proper,” supplemented Meta, 
“and it wasn’t so very long ago either. Think how hard it 
must have been for the poor girl with dull, mouse-colored 
hair and sallow complexion. She and her friends, had to 
live with them all their lives; now one can suit her own 
taste.” 

“The male contingent of this party admit that they are 
the best bunch of pickers in little old New York,” announced 
the glib-tongued Eddie. “And I’ll say that’s going some! ” 

“Sure,” added Jim, “you should be highly complimented 
that you are here with us.” 

“Listen to the conceited fops,” Horto labeled them. “Look 
at Cornie coming in with Clare! Talk about Beauty and the 
Beast—I suppose she should be tickled to death to walk with 
that ugly duckling! I don’t care if he is your friend—he is 
ugly! Look at him, big features, broad nose, shaggy eye¬ 
brows with little eyes, like jet beads sunk way in—wrinkled 
forehead, short and—no, he isn’t fat, but stocky. And his 
hair like two horns, the way he parts the bushy black waves 
in the center.” 

“Gee whiz, he sure must have snubbed the black-eyed 
beauty, all righto!” declared Jim. “I’ll admit Cornie isn’t 
a Greek god like his brother, but the chap has his good 
points—a wonderful personality is not the least of them— 
he always radiates optimism and good fellowship.” 

“I detest handsome men,” Meta came to Cornie’s defense. 


20 


SOUL TOYS 


“I think a rugged, homely man is more masculine. I agree 
with you, Jim, there is something different about him—he 
draws you to him—makes you like him and holds you, too.” 

“Fight it out,” Eddie advised; and then as the couple 
came closer, he hailed them: “Hello Cornie! Hello Clare! 
Say Cornie, what have you been doing to the Leaman wo¬ 
man? She has been singing your praises somethin’ awful— 
until the Clay girl came to your rescue.” 

“Hello, people! ” was Clare’s greeting, as Cornie gave 
them each a robust handshake and smirkingly showed his 
gratification that he had been the topic of their conversation. 
“I suppose we have been properly dissected by our friends, 
but here we are, still whole. We had a dandy walk and in 
what time do vou think we covered the trip?” 

“Oh, I suppose fifty seconds,” Jim bantered. 

“No, we didn’t use the airship this time, boys,” replied 
Cornie, “but we did make it in forty minutes—which is go¬ 
ing some, I’ll say.” 

“It’s almost nine-thirty,” Eddie told them. “If we are 
going to carry out our plan to hold a meeting of the Heart- 
Mates on the beach, we better start dancing and get that 
part through. Let’s go,” as he lifted little Meta Clay from 
her chair and swung her off into a fox-trot to the tune of the 
latest dance-compelling “Blues.” 

“Some jazz!” Cornie praised the exuberant music as he 
teetered to and fro with Clare closely pressed to him. He 
waved to the ’cellist, sawing wildly and lifting himself from 
his chair in a regular and furious rhythm like a nervous girl 
in a riding school. Clare smiled at the blonde cornetist as 
he hung an old hat over the bell of his shining instrument and 
brought forth a weird blast. 

“You sure are some stepper,” Clare told Cornie as he took 
a flying dip when the clarinet outsquealed the rest of the 
band. 

“Some gang,” Jim shouted to Cornie above the furious 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


21 


drum-beats as they drew their partners into a little air pocket 
in the crowded floor. “Say, don’t forget our date to-morrow 
at the ‘Studio/ ” he added. 

“The Studio ? ” Clare questioned. 

“Didn’t you know I mold the clay now and then? You must 
come down to the Village and see it,” Cornie answered. 

“A Greenwich Village sculptor, eh? Since when the 
practical application of your artistic temperament? I’ll bet 
there is a kick in it somewhere. Let’s see, is it a model ? or 
maybe you needed a headquarters in the ‘District’ ? ” 

“Perhaps both! ” he replied. 


CHAPTER II 


An hour later they gathered in a circle on the beach to hold 
their meeting. Waiters from the “Castles” brought ginger- 
ale. Pocket-flasks quickly appeared to add the touch that 
makes all the world akin: eight cigarettes were soon giving 
forth their fragrance, and the “brisk bunch of the younger 
set” as they were designated by their fellow-members of 
New York’s so-called “Four Hundred,” were prepared for 
business. 

“Before I can call this session to order,” announced Cor- 
nie, “I must ask the non-members to retire.” 

“Oh, I say,” called out Eddie, “why can’t the other girls 
stay? I know Clare is the only ex-officio member, because 
she originated the club, but the other girls ought to be in it, 
too.” 

“Of course,” agreed Cornie, “I only wanted someone to 
suggest it. Meta Clay, Tillie Freer, and Horto Leaman, 
you are all members of the Heart-Mates. Boys, present 
arms! ” 

Immediately, four pairs of arms circled four slender 
waists. 

“I don’t like this a bit,” objected Meta. “I really do not 
enjoy being pawed over by you, Eddie.” 

“You ought to be used to it by now. If I kept my dis¬ 
tance, believe me, you would resent it very quickly.” 

“I am no iceberg, Eddie,” rejoined Meta, “but I wouldn’t 
cry if you never came near me. I don’t want to be rare, 
like jade—but neither do I wish to be common, like stone.” 

“Listen to the words of wisdom,” Jim mocked her. 
“Those are big words from such a little lady.” 

“Well, I don’t care, a girl has to be careful,” Tillie plunged 


22 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


23 


into the discussion. “Once she lets a man take an inch, he 
wants a yard.” 

“I agree with you,” Meta said; “we must scatter the ashes 
before we start to slip.” 

“Her sex should be her protection among gentlemen,” 
Clare thrust out with dignity. 

“To the contrary,” Cornie parried, “when a woman is 
beautiful and fascinating, her sex is a challenge and not a 
defense.” 

Clare puckered her finely chiseled lips and brought a 
scowl to her clear brow. “I don’t like that at all, at all,” she 
declared with feeling. 

“Well it’s the truth,” he persisted; “and now I must use 
the official seal to open the meeting.” Unexpectedly he drew 
Clare to him and pressed a kiss on her lips, still puckered in 
protest. 

“Now, Cornie, I ask you, is that nice ? ” Clare complained 
crossly as she pulled away. 

“Clare’s an old-fashioned prude! ” Meta dubbed her. 

“I am, am I? I’ll show you. Clay Murray, come here 
this very minute! ” 

The man called responded with alacrity, and when he 
stood in front of her, Clare demanded: “Kiss me, my fool! ” 
pursing her lips in readiness. Clay met them full with his 
and so they remained as the rest cried: “Hold it! Hold it! 
Mm! Oh! Ah! Booh!” 

“Jealous cats! ” Clay shouted as he returned to his place. 

“You see, I bestow my lips on whom I choose, I don’t like 
thieves,” Clare told them proudly. 

“All men are thieves when the opportunity is presented to 
steal kisses from beautiful women,” Cornie retorted. “But 
that is the very question we are to discuss! ‘What influence 
do beautiful women have on men’s lives and what effect do 
males have on gorgeous females?’ With this as the topic 


24 


SOUL TOYS 


of the evening, I call to order the meeting of the Heart- 
Mates,’’ was Cornie’s final answer to her protest. 

The beautiful September moon looked down with a smile 
on these votaries of Beauty and Passion, and seemed to 
beckon them to tread the silvery path over the gleaming 
waters to a Pleasure Globe—a World of Passion! The old 
Atlantic, too, urged them on by intoning a soft accompani¬ 
ment to their voices with the continuous rolling of its waves, 
like soft drum-beats. 

Cornie called the meeting to order with a jocular roll- 
call: “Cornelius M. Wildner, Jr., Chairman, high-priest of 
the cult of the Beautiful, eldest son of Cornelius M. Wildner, 
Sr., international banker,” and in a falsetto voice answered, 
“Present.” 

“James Vanduyne, Chief-assistant seeker of good-looking 
girls, department store proprietor by inheritance.” 

“All here and all in,” replied the gentleman named. 

“Edward Philbrick, second aid in the admiration of female 
Birds of Paradise, grandson of James Philbrick, pioneer 
railroad builder.” 

“I am here, too,” he declared. 

“Clay Murray, head of the department of love-making, 
only member in captivity who earns his own living and glories 
in the fact. He says he does not envy the idle rich, but note, 
fellow-priests—and what shall I call the girls?—Virgins of 
the Temple—he is trying hard to amass enough filthy lucre 
to break into that same despised class! ” 

“Here and not guilty,” affirmed and denied Clay. 

“Now for the ladies—Clare Emerson—only daughter of 
the ‘Radio King/ Walter Emerson. She is the most beauti¬ 
ful girl—of her type—please note, girls, I am very diplo¬ 
matic,—in New York.” 

“Ready for business,” was Clare’s rebuke. 

“Attilie Freer, lone orphan, rolling in wealth and ex¬ 
ponent of the latest shades in hair.” 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


25 


“I refuse to answer,” she pouted. 

“Hortense Leaman, originator of the baby-stare, and 
Father Knickerbocker’s most dignified young lady, just from 
finishing school, but not gummed up with haughtiness if she 
is the daughter of a famous chewing-gum magnate.” 

“Present,” she responded briefly. 

“Finally, Meta Murray, sister of Clay, the biggest little 
girl in the whole country.” 

“I protest against the unseemly mirth of our chairman,” 
she announced with mock seriousness. 

“Now that we are all here, I am going to ask the lady 
who named the club and brought it into existence, to give 
her reason for so doing.” 

“Well,” began Clare, “I don’t think that I was ever with 
any of the four gentlemen present, when they passed a 
beautiful girl without commenting in some such fashion as: 
‘Look at that girl, Clare, isn’t she a corker?—I tell you 
there is nothing to equal a beautiful young girl! ’ or: ‘There 
is a queen, I wish I knew who she is! ’ And then I hap¬ 
pened several times to break into a discussion of feminine 
beauty that these gallants were having, and heard our friend 
Cornie repeatedly say: ‘The only thing that is really beauti¬ 
ful, is the human form in Woman! I love it in its natural 
state. I admire it in marble and on canvas—naught else 
matters. It stirs my heart—it makes me a mate to every 
beautiful girl! Her sole purpose on earth is to satisfy Man’s 
tastes and appetites.’ Jim and Eddie are always boasting of 
their latest female conquests, and asserting that the divine 
beauty of feminine flesh is life itself to them. Now that 
is why I say that they are Heart-Mates. They seek the 
fleshly beauty. Beauty and love are alone things of earth— 
heart to heart.” 

“Bravo! ” declared Cornie; “better said than I could have 
put it myself; only I want to add, that the last speaker is 
the embodiment of all my hopes and passions.” 


26 


SOUL TOYS 


“Now, I really do think perfection of physique is won¬ 
derful,” broke in Meta, “but physical beauty is so much a 
thing of chance, and you know ‘beauty is only skin deep/ ” 

“That’s deep enough for me, old dear,” Eddie cried reck¬ 
lessly. “I could never love a homely girl! The beautiful 
girl is a combination of the glory of the sunshine and the 
coloring of the flowers. She is Nature’s pet! ” 

“To me,” said Clay, “there is a divine idea in the beauty 
of Aphrodite. I can remember still when I saw the spectacle, 
the majesty of that dreamy form.” 

“Why is it that women are always the main topic of men’s 
conversation? ” asked Horto. “They glory in their captures, 
and I know that the ugliest little shrimp will try to make his 
fellow-seekers believe he is a heart-breaker.” 

“The pursuit of Woman is Man’s oldest pastime. We 
don’t carry them off on horse-back any more—now it’s by 
auto or airship,” explained Cornie. 

“I have no objection to being talked about,” replied Meta, 
“but I resent the lack of respect which reflects on every man’s 
mother, sister, and sweetheart. One would really think every 
woman was waiting for her prince to take her and ready to 
grant his every wish, while we know that only few women 
are untrue to themselves and most are as chaste as Diana,” 
she finished as she dabbed her nose with powder. 

“Most women like to lead the men to think they are ready 
to be very naughty, but when the latter start to overstep the 
line they draw back,” added Tillie with a sophisticated 
grimace. 

“Yes,” Clare observed, “they think their desire is like that 
of the moth for the star, but too often they end up by letting 
it become the fatal desire of the moth for the candle flame! ” 

“The deliciousness of love and the restfulness of beauty,” 
contributed Clay, “should not be spoiled by the occasional 
lapse.” 

“You mean the capacity to enjoy should not be troubled 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


27 


by Man’s soul,” Clare intensified his expression as she 
looked at Clay. 

“We men are natural animals; how can we be calm in the 
presence of beauty ? ” was his confession. 

“You deny the very beauty of the thing you admire, when 
you refuse to recognize the spirit within; no woman can be 
really beautiful who has not a spiritual calm behind the out¬ 
ward mask, however wonderful the latter may be,” she 
maintained with feeling. 

“What about the gorgeous demi-mondes ? ” inquired Clay. 

“Even common women have souls. You remember the 
religious fervor of Arnold’s ‘Pretty Lady’! And then, early 
training sometimes leaves an impress that never vanishes; 
but usually, real beauty does not last long with that type,” 
answered Clare with surprising insight. 

“I can’t love Beauty in the abstract,” persisted Cornie; “I 
suppose I do carry my ideas to an extreme—just as my 
brother Jean sees no beauty in anything but the spirit and 
the soul. I do not believe there is any intelligence in love, 
it is instinct. My love of beauty in human form is naturally 
attracted to every beautiful girl, but I can only once meet my 
mate.” 

“You have an excess of materialism,” replied Clare. “Jean 
has an over-abundance of spirituality, neither are normal. 
All excess as well as all renunciation brings its own punish¬ 
ment, the loss of the good in the opposite, for if we look up¬ 
ward or downward always we lose heaven or earth. You, 
Cornie, worship physical beauty too much, you cannot see 
the beauty in the wonderful landscape. Jean acknowledges 
naught but the soul’s influence, he loses the human touch of 
the world. But we can none of us reject the battle—we 
cannot be spectators. Materialism against Spirituality, is 
the battle array! Passion versus Renunciation. Perhaps 
Moderation is the peace term—perhaps there can be no 
peace—each true to itself.” 


28 


SOUL TOYS 


“You are trying to be a spectator, apparently,” Meta 
jibed. “You are in both camps—Heart-Mates and Soul- 
Mates.” 

“That is because I am still in No-Man’s Land. Some day 
I will decide which army I will join. I am a sort of Red 
Cross nurse, trying to aid both—and not get shot myself.” 

“Well, here’s to Oscar Wilde,” cried Eddie, “the founder 
of the Heart-Mates’ creed! ” He drained the last of his 
high-ball. “I am going for a shaker of cocktails I’ve in my 
car,” he said as he jumped up. 

“Here’s to King Solomon! He beat old Oscar to it,” 
Clay proposed, when Eddie’s treat had been distributed. “I 
envy him the great concourse of beauties he possessed.” 

“We are not wiser than the ages gone by,” said Tillie. 
“Men have changed very little in the inwardness of their at¬ 
titude toward women, since the days of Moses. The in¬ 
junction ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife! ’ has not 
been greatly improved upon, except that we do recognize 
now, that the wife has something to say about it.” 

“It is the nature of grass to bend if the wind blows strong 
enough; so a woman will respond to the will of man, if his 
passion is a perfect hurricane,” added Cornie with a positive 
assurance that annoyed Meta. 

“Not all women! ” she objected strenuously. 

“No, there are spiritual women, like soul-loving men, but 
most women do not fall because they are not tempted; either 
they lack the earthly beauty that we have been discussing, or 
chance has not thrown a designing male in their path,” was 
Cornie’s bold reply. 

“Then you believe in the ‘fall of man’ and woman too— 
in the natural badness ow women,” suggested Clare auda¬ 
ciously. 

“No, I maintain that all women are innately good at 
heart— but I also know that they are frail and weak when 
tempted.” 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


29 


“And man is not? ” she asked cynically. 

“He certainly is not the stronger, when his passion rules 

him. ,, 

“Well, when it does?” Clare continued to probe. 

“A girl will give in to the wild impulse of the moment that 
he thus creates and overcome her sound desire to do right. 
Later, a vain regret succeeds the transient joy, and finally 
a disgust with herself. It is all so human,” Cornie’s words 
showed his knowledge of feminine nature. 

“And the man?” persisted Clare, “You must have been 
the confidant of girlish frailities; I wonder if you under¬ 
stand your own sex as well.” 

“To the man, all loves—all passionate desires, but the real 
one are but passing whims. To the girl, each adventure 
is the last, in her own mind,” he completed his grilling re¬ 
search. 

Tillie attracted their attention by throwing away her ciga¬ 
rette and producing a tiny silver pipe. “A light please, 
Eddie,” she demanded. As he complied, he sang out: “When 
Til-lie hits her old pipe, tra, la, la.” 

“Our emotions have their heights and their depths like the 
hills and the valleys,” Horto renewed the discussion. 

“And occasionally a glacier of over-powering desire sweeps 
both and carries all before it,” Jim gave as his viewpoint. 

“I contend,” Clare resumed presently, “that when Woman 
breaks the moral law, she does so most often from ignorance 
or in the blindness of a real love and with unbounded confi¬ 
dence in her lover, rather than from a positive desire to do 
wrong.” 

“That is the usual excuse,” Cornie retorted with worldly 
wisdom; “Woman never sins—just slips.” He took up a 
handful of sand and let it slide through his fingers as if il¬ 
lustrating his thought. “Even the woman of the under¬ 
world will tell you that she was led to her ruin.” 

“And I believe her! ” Clare answered belligerently. “The 


30 


SOUL TOYS 


first step is never deliberate. No one would knowingly 
choose such a life. She either is led or pushed down by 
some unthinking man; tries to climb back but finding the 
effort too hard, is finally content to wallow in the mud.” 

“But why is it,” Cornie inquired, “that even the married 
woman must still seek the admiration of other men to satis¬ 
fy her?” Proceeding to answer himself, he said: “Because 
man-made monogamy is as irksome at times to her as to her 
husband.” 

“Is polygamy your ideal then, along with physical 
beauty ? ” asked Horto in surprise. 

“Absolutely no! ” Cornie denied, “I merely say that in 
Man’s and Woman’s nature, there is most certainly a po¬ 
lygamous instinct which, in the Woman, married or un¬ 
married, requires the adulation of more than one male; and 
in the Man, the actual companionship of more than one 
woman or the vicarious enjoyment of them, through book, 
play, or opera, or the discussion of imaginary affairs when 
in the company of other men. That is your explanation of 
man’s apparent disrespect.” 

“Woman wants Man to desire her,” he continued. “She 
seeks always to make herself beautiful, to attract him. Many 
a middle-aged woman is a kind, motherly person, once she 
forgets her aspiration to be considered a beautiful young 
girl.” 

“But they say love is blind,” retaliated Tillie. “History 
tells us that Queen Elizabeth had a red nose. I wonder if 
Sir Walter Raleigh saw it?” 

“Love is never blind, but always alive to the minutest spot 
which mars its object,” he answered. 

“I see,” said Horto, “you want perfection—just as the 
child cries to possess an elephant he sees in the passing 
parade.” 

“The child has the pleasure of hoping to have his longing 
fulfilled; so has man, who hopes to find the perfect woman, 
the joy of his yearning.” 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


31 


“But there is no perfect woman! ” declared Clare rather 
sarcastically. 

Clay supplemented his statement: “I mean perfect in 
physical beauty, form, color, and features.” 

“Earthly—dust to dust—again. I incline now to the other 
camp,” Clare fumed. 

“You’ll admit, at any rate, that the American man has 
placed Woman on a higher pedestal than men of other 
nationality ever have done,” declared Clay proudly. 

“His own family, yes! But as to other women, they are 
proper game to chase,” came back Meta; “still there is this 
one satisfaction; you may hook the fish, though deep in the 
water; you can shoot the birds, though high in the air; and 
you may catch a girl’s body—but her soul is out of your 
reach! ” 

“If a man’s passion is big enough, she will respond, body 
and soul,” Cornie insisted. 

“Don’t frighten the girls,” pleaded Eddie, “or they will 
fear to let their Eddie kiss them.” 

“Your amorous breath is like garlic, it would drive any 
girl to drink before she would accept your embraces,” laugh¬ 
ingly proclaimed Clay. 

“Speaking of garlic,” said Clare, “I read the other day of 
an old European custom, among unmarried girls, of putting 
onions on an altar on Christmas Eve and holding a mirror 
over them to see in it the number of husbands they will have 
and who shall be the first; so love is strong.” 

“That is the love that brings tears,” remarked Tillie. 

“If Man’s love for Woman was as pure as hers is for him, 
she would shed less tears for his inconstancy,” Meta com¬ 
plained. 

“What would you have, Meta,” asked her brother, “Man 
to place Woman under a glass case, like the old porcelains 
of our grandmothers? ” 

“That is just where he wants his particular woman to stay, 


32 


SOUL TOYS 


until he is ready to remove her to his own cage. Whether she 
be wife or mistress, the man insists that he be the only male 
in his woman’s life. She is taboo—but all others are an open 
field with no closed season.” 

“A single standard, is that what you want ? ” 

“No, only that every woman be treated with the same 
respect by all as by her own family, and not be the handball 
of Man’s game, her reputation knocked to and fro, in a 
world of slipshod, unchivalrous commonness! ” 

“Listen to the family squabble, when brother and sister 
can’t agree, how can the rest of us? ” wearily decided Horto. 

“Come on, let’s start back,” Eddie ordered, “we haven’t 
all got Mercers.” 

They arose, brushed off the sand and went into the hall 
to get their wraps. Then they separated as they had come, 
to return to the city. 

As they speeded away from the beach Cornie said wist¬ 
fully to Clare, “I am not a celestial lover, but very human.” 

“You are somewhat of a cynic; you are too earthly in 
your love. You feel only through your senses and you 
really have not a very high ideal of Woman. To you she is 
a mere Jack O’Lantern, to amuse whoever may chance to be 
struck with her brilliance. You have too keen a sense of 
physical life and too great a lack of spiritual.” 

“Do you know what it means for a man to be in love? 
His own body is no longer free—his life radiates from 
another center. When one is fancy free, all his life is 
within himself, he is the architect of his own actions. But 
when in love, it is another’s will that dominates his happi¬ 
ness. All certainty is destroyed—nothing is positive—doubt 
continually assails him. Such is my sad condition now! ” 

“Too bad about you,” she satirized. 

“I want you, Clare, in this world as you are to-day, beau¬ 
tiful and charming. I want to enjoy life with you,” he went 
on, ignoring her caustic comment. 


THE WORLD OF PASSION 


33 


“You want me to remain forever beautiful—life to be a 
perfect June day—always day and never night. No one’s 
life can be like that! I wish I could see your way, Cornie. 
I think life would be very pleasant with you.” The girl sud¬ 
denly had grown very serious. “Your lure of ease, comfort, 
and joy—sunshine only—calls me. But I am afraid of the 
clouds; adversity you do not recognize now; when that 
comes, the soul must be your only anchor. Some day, I will 
give you your answer, dear, not now.” 

They drove to the Hotel Modore and as Cornie helped 
Clare out of the car the latter said, “We are going back to 
Buttermilk Bay to-morrow. Mother and I have finished our 
shopping. We shall stay in Massachusetts until we leave 
for the South, not going to open our town house. Come up 
to ‘World’s End’ sometime—but beware! we always keep our 
guests, because the name of our place tells them they can’t 
go farther. Make it soon, will you ? ” 

“Delighted! I’ll come. I’d go anywhere to see you! ” 
responded Cornie heartily; and after escorting Clare to the 
elevator he left the hotel, whistling. Somehow he felt that 
sooner or later she would be his wife, and the feeling gave 
him infinite satisfaction. He could not believe that anyone 
could withstand his love-making. Her hesitation merely 
urged him to greater effort to win her. 

Clare gave her mother a kiss, as she was preparing to re¬ 
tire, and said wistfully, “Mother, is beauty everything, or 
does one’s soul count for more? ” 

“Beauty with wealth, can have the world at her feet, that 
is positive. One’s soul is a very uncertain thing,” replied 
the worldly Mrs. Emerson. 

“But satisfaction of the latter is more desirable than 
worldly success—isn’t that what you have taught me?” 
queried the daughter. 

“As a child, my dear; as a woman, you must not let your¬ 
self drift into too deep water. The soul is very well for 


34 


SOUL TOYS 


Sunday and church, but for everyday, look to your com¬ 
plexion and your hair, my dear. Do not forget that while 
your father has plenty, it would be very satisfactory to marry 
a wealthy man who could give you everything that you are 
accustomed to having. Now Cornelius is a good substantial 
man and will never let his money get away from him when 
he receives it from his father. Jean will probably divide his 
share with every tramp he meets on the road, and let his 
wife live on love, while he talks of soul desires. The world 
needs dreamers, my sweetheart, but they are not so com¬ 
fortable to live with as materialists.” 

“But mother, you said you would go with me up to Jean’s 
place in the Catskills for this week-end. You need a change.” 

“Rest is all we’ll get there, but I will take you. It ought 
to do you good to talk with Jean. He is so safe—and his 
friends—he always has such odd people—will help to 
broaden you. But be careful not to fall in love with Jean! 
He certainly does look like a Greek god, but he is so irre¬ 
sponsible and whimsical. I never can understand what he is 
talking about. But go to sleep, it’s too late now for you to 
get your full beauty sleep.” 

Mrs. Emerson was doing her best to mold her daughter 
into a dutiful subject of King Passion. 


Part II 


THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 



CHAPTER III 


A taxi drew up in front of the Universal Radio Corpo¬ 
ration Building on upper Broadway; the occupant paid the 
chauffeur, then leisurely stepped out, sauntered up to the 
windows of the magnificent show room at the right of the 
entrance, looked with interest at the various styles of radio 
sets, small and large, at the varied equipment, then without 
hurrying entered the lobby. 

The man was short and fat, but upright and solid as a 
rock. He had two distinguishing features, a deep curve in 
his very straight back, and a florid fat face with cheeks 
canopied with bushy, silvery gray hair, carefully parted in 
the middle and brushed back smoothly from his high 
forehead. 

Leaving the elevator at the top floor he crossed the hall 
to a door on which appeared the word “Private,” opened it 
and entered a very large room. About a third of the way 
back was a railing behind which sat a girl, a sign bearing 
the word “Information” in front of her. Numerous closed 
doors bordered the three sides of the room, about which 
several tables and chairs were scattered. 

“Good morning, Miss Hayes,” the newcomer smilingly 
greeted the girl. 

“Good morning, Mr. Glynn. I will tell Mr. Murphy you 
are here.” She held back the gate for him to enter the 
larger space, then inserted some plugs in the switchboard 
in front of her. “Mr Glynn is here, Mr. Murphy! ” she 
announced; and then, after a moment, “Very well, I’ll tell 
him.” 


37 


38 


SOUL TOYS 


“You can go right in.” She motioned toward a door at 
the extreme right corner. 

Glynn proceeded across the heavily carpeted room and 
opened a door which bore the name, “L. N. Murphy.” As 
he entered, a slender, sharp featured young man with very 
black hair and a tiny mustache arose, extended his hand and 
said, “Mr. Emerson is alone.” He opened the door to an 
inner office, entrance to which could be gained only through 
the one in which they were. 

The two stood quietly for a moment as the man at the 
enormous flat top desk continued to keep his head bowed 
over the papers before him, apparently unaware of their 
presence. 

Murphy pointed to a chair and Glynn seated himself. The 
former advanced to the desk and the man behind looked up. 
“Mr. Glynn, sir,” Murphy announced. 

“Oh, good morning, Glynn, I am glad to see you,” said the 
man at the desk as if he had just discovered him. His voice 
was high-pitched and weak, in curious contrast to his 
appearance. 

“Morning, Walter,” the visitor answered. 

With a single motion, Emerson dismissed his secretary 
and called Glynn closer to the desk. Sitting there he gave 
the impression of a tall, big man. His head was thick and 
broad, his face full, with ruddy cheeks and a rather prom¬ 
inent nose. A heavy crop of russet brown hair loosely 
combed made his forehead scarcely noticeable. His shoulders 
were wide, he was big boned, but as he arose and walked 
slowly to the window the sense of bigness disappeared. He 
seemed all head and shoulders—his trunk just stocky enough 
to support the upper part of his body but his legs too short to 
give proper proportion to the whole. 

With the brilliant eyes of an enthusiast he peered out of 
the window over the hodge-podge of New York’s upper 


THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 


39 


business district. He always had a preoccupied air as if his 
mind were ever busy with its problems. 

“I am sixty years old, Glynn—sixty years,” Emerson 
exclaimed suddenly. He threw off the figure as if it hurt 
him. 

“You have me beaten by a few, not many though,” said 
his visitor. 

“I should be set for life—should be set for life.” Emerson 
had a habit of repeating phrases which he considered 
important. 

“What?” Glynn retorted, “you not fixed for life? You— 
the head of the newest and greatest of all modern 
business combinations—president of the Universal Radio 
Corporation! ” 

“Yes—yes—I suppose you think so—but Glynn, you are 
my broker, you ought to know better. You know I only hold 
a little better than fifty-one per cent of the stock.” 

“Enough to control! ” 

“Just enough. And that damn Wildner is hanging on to 
the twenty-five per cent he grabbed when we bought that 
last group of battery factories; waiting like a wolf for me 
to need him again! He wants the Universal for his damn 
sons—the old hound ! ” 

The stock-broker remained silent. He knew he had not 
been sent for to hear the old complaint, but for some definite 
purpose. 

“Eve got to get enough of the outstanding stock to give me 
some leeway to play around in the Market a bit now and 
then. I have to be afraid now to let any of my stock to for 
fear of being caught in a jam if I should have to exercise my 
control. I’ve got a big job for you, old man, I want to 
increase my holdings at least ten to fifteen per cent. I 
am going the limit to get it! And we might land some of 
Wildner’s if we put the price up high enough.” He smote 
his hands in his excitement. “He’ll never get it back if we 


40 


SOUL TOYS 


do! If I could only shoot my holdings up to seventy or 
seventy-five per cent; then I’d breathe easier; feel free of 
Wildner and make a killing on the Street once in a while.” 

“Out for big game, eh? ” Glynn finally ventured. 

“What’s the last quotation on Universal?” Emerson 
ignored the comment. 

“It closed at fifty-two.” 

“Fifty-two? Here’s my calculation. The total issue is 
fifteen million shares. I have close to eight million. Wildner 
has three million seven fifty. The remainder is scattered. 
The Public is not selling, the market is stagnant.” 

“You will sell and bring it down?” 

“No. I’ll buy and force it up—up—up so high we’ll get 
them coming.” 

“But the money ? ” 

“You know what I have to start with and I’ll pyramid— 
pyramid—pyramid—buy and and put up what I get.” 

“Do you realize how much your eight million shares are 
worth right now ? ” 

“You think I am a damn fool, eh?” 

“I suppose we are never satisfied, never can let well enough 
alone.” 

“It is up to you to put it across, but don’t hog it. Spread 
the job out—parcel it to as big a bunch of brokers as you 
can. We must cover up the appearance of a single effort. 
Throw dust in Wildner’s eyes as well as the dear Public.” 

“You are going to bull the market—force Universal 
Radio sky high, eh ? ” 

“Buy and buy until we’ve got what we are going after! 
You know the old game, they fall for the high prices.” 

“But is it worth what you will pay for it ? ” 

“My dear Glynn, you have been my broker for years; 
you know, when I buy, I know what’s back of the stock. 
Universal has millions of unfilled orders—the future is cer- 


THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 


41 


tain. I am simply mortgaging its future to hold it absolutely 
in my hands.” 

“You are the only man who can develop the great future 
of the Radio,” said the broker. 

“It can’t get away from me, the Universal controls all the 
basic patents.” Emerson paced up and down the room as he 
excitedly outlined his plans. He seemed to gather new 
energy as he went on. 

The telephone buzzer rang. Emerson looked at it with 
a scowl of annoyance but finally took up the receiver. 
“Well ? ” he questioned—then paused. “What the hell does 
he want?”—another pause. “Tell him I’ll see him at two 
this afternoon.” He hung up the receiver and turned to 
Glynn. “Old man Wildner wants to see me. I suppose he 
will politely—he’s always too damn polite—suggest certain 
changes in our company. He loves to pound it in.” 

The buzzer rang again. “Well, what now? What?” he 
roared, “the impudence! Very well—show him in when he 
arrives.” He put up the receiver with a bang. “He’s got a 
hell of a lot of nerve, said he had to see me this morning and 
would be right over.” 

Glynn smiled. “You don’t like to take orders.” 

“Twenty-five per cent! You’d think he controlled 
Universal, instead of me. Well I’ll be ready for him.” 

“I’ll trot along and get busy—you don’t want me to wait 
until after you see Wildner?” 

“No! ” he thundered. “Start the fireworks right off. 
Keep me advised. Shoot her up, Glynn,” and he turned to 
his desk before his visitor had left the room. 


CHAPTER IV 


As Glynn left the building he passed a most distinguished 
appearing man entering it, whom he recognized as Cor¬ 
nelius M. Wildner, Sr., head of the world-wide known bank¬ 
ing firm of Cornelius M. Wildner & Co., and present head of 
the old and aristocratic Wildner family. He was the fifth of 
the same name, and looked the part; of medium height, he 
was neither stout nor thin, but exceedingly well proportioned. 
His face was thin, almost ascetic looking. He had a little 
white hair, evenly parted on each side, closely cut, and a 
van-dyke beard, trimmed like an English hedge. His eyes 
were black and very small, with eye-brows still black, which 
gave him the look of always peering at something. His 
nose was straight, his jaw narrow and firm. He was very 
pale and was perfectly groomed. 

He made his way, as Glynn had done, to Emerson’s of¬ 
fice ; “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, taking away the blunt¬ 
ness of Emerson’s, “I thank you for arranging your own 
appointment,” which he threw at Wildner. “I have no 
doubt you are curious as to my mission,” the visitor half 
questioned. 

Emerson puckered his lips and raised his brows, then 
shrugged his shoulders to express his indifference; but his 
eyes plainly showed that Wildner had sensed his feelings. 

“Your daughter?” Wildner adjusted his pince-nez as he 
looked at the picture in a swinging frame on the desk. 

Emerson nodded. 

“She is really the cause of my visit,” Wildner explained. 

“Clare, the cause ? ” 

“Yes. You know I have no daughter, so I am interested 
in yours. You have no sons, I presume your interest in my 
two boys.” 


42 


THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 


43 


Emerson made no response. In fact he had no idea what 
the other was getting at. 

“You work too hard, Emerson. You ought to play more/’ 
Wildner went on easily. 

“I don’t know how to play. I’ve never had time. I work 
till late and then I sleep. I am very regular in my life. The 
Universal is my life! It may sound trite, but I enjoy my 
work more than anything else I can do.” 

“I know how you feel. In a different way, I suppose I 
am like you. I am a golf enthusiast, you know, but I work 
too hard at it. I determined when I took it up that I was 
going to play a good game or not at all. I do not have to be 
ashamed of my game now, if I do so say. You play, don’t 
you ? ” 

“After a fashion. Somehow I can’t put .my mind on it.” 

“It’s worth while—anything’s worth while that takes your 
mind off of your business.” 

“But it doesn’t with me, that’s the trouble.” 

“Keep at it—it’ll come in time.” 

Suddenly a wave of resentment surged over Emerson. 
Why was he listening to advice as if he were a school-boy 
to be taught by this dominating man? 

“I did the same thing with paintings,” Wildner continued, 
ignoring the growing irritation produced by his words and 
manner. “I always was interested in them, but I knew I 
couldn’t cover the whole field, so determined to specialize in 
the work of artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. 
I have quite a gallery. You must see it.” 

“I don’t know one painting from the other.” Emerson 
wondered why he should admit this even as he said the 
words. 

“You and I can’t help but go at things strenuously. It’s 
in the blood of our generation. We don’t work for money, 
we don’t play for fun, we labor and play hard to give vent 
to our energy—it’s the constructive urge.” 


44 


SOUL TOYS 


Emerson understood now. This man was like himself 
after all. “You are right. What I crave is power—power 
over men—power to create—to do things—things worth 

while. I am no fine phrase maker, but what I mean-” he 

arose and spoke intensely, in brief phrases, “is that I am 
working for my children, not for myself.” He looked at the 
picture on the desk as if it were an idol. “Sometimes when 
I think of the thousands and thousands of men and women 
working for me all over the world, I feel like an old slave- 
driver—and then again like their father. They are my 
children, too. I’ve got to keep things going for them as well 
as for my own girl.” 

“Feel that way at times myself; but of course, in the 
banking game, one is more detached, there isn’t the personal 
touch with the worker; but we furnish the money that keeps 
the world going around.” 

This drew Emerson back to earth. “You said my daugh¬ 
ter was the cause of your coming here ? ” he questioned. 

“Yes,” the elder man hesitated. “It’s rather a delicate 
subject. I want a daughter, Emerson, and I have no doubt 
you would like a son.” 

“Well ? ” 

“My son Cornie, loves your daughter. Couldn’t we each 
nudge our own a little ? ” 

It was clear to Emerson, now. Wildner was seeking to 
steal his business for the son. He turned fiercely: “My 
daughter will marry a man—not a dissipated idler! ” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

The man addressed seemed to grow even more pale than 
he had been, but retained control of himself. “I have an¬ 
other son, a saint, if you prefer,” he said quietly, with a 
half-sneer. 

“We don’t want a sentimental mollycoddle—a fool—either 
and it’s not enough merely to be your son, or the grandson, 
or even great-grandson of one of your illustrious name.” 



THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 


45 


“Those of my line are gentlemen, sir! ” 

“You are heirs—I’m an ancestor! I am founding my 
line—and my daughter must help. She’ll marry a real he- 
man, one who can pass the acid test of dyed-in-the-wool 
Americanism! ” 

“You accuse my sons of not being Americans? Why, a 
Wildner came over on the Mayflower—and you dare to re¬ 
fuse a union of our families!” Wildner laughed. 

“I do! Your blue-blood will never mix with my red- 
blood ! Americanism is a thing of action, not of birth! ” 
“You would emulate Napoleon, in giving new blood and 
new energy to America, as he did to France. But they called 
him an upstart.” 

“Yes, that’s what they called Napoleon, I believe. I don’t 

know much history, but-” 

“Napoleon met his Waterloo. The Bourbons came back.” 
“The beginning of his end came when he married that 
aristocrat, Marie Louise. That’s one hobby I’ve had— 
Napoleon.” He pointed to a bronze bust of the Little Cor¬ 
poral. “I’ve bought every book-” 

Wildner interrupted. He did not care to listen to a dis¬ 
sertation upon that man of destiny. “You have had a rush 
of gold to your head, Emerson; have you forgotten that I 
helped to build your business and fortune?” 

“And exacted your pound of flesh—as bankers always do!” 
The self-contained banker lost control of himself. The 
natural man under his skin broke out in vituperation: “You’ll 
pay for this—you’ll beg on your knees to have your girl 
marry Cornie! They will be married in spite of your atti¬ 
tude. Not that I give a rap for you or yours—you are bar¬ 
barians! But what my boy wants—he shall have. Your 
plan is that your precious heir shall marry your own selec¬ 
tion. A political match is your aim. Social position, educa¬ 
tion, family, culture, mean nothing to you; money you’ve 
got now and the only type you admire—that you can under¬ 
stand—is that evolved from some gutter snipe-” 





46 


SOUL TOYS 


“Who should stay there to work for you and your para¬ 
sites ! ” supplemented Emerson. 

“You are obsessed with your own importance. You went 
up like a sky rocket—you’ll come down like one! ” 

“I am lighting things up for a few thousand workingmen 
while I am up, anyway; and when I hit the ground, you’ll 
hear the impact, all right! ” 

Wildner took up his hat and cane. “Samson, if you know 
who he was, was a strong man, but he had a weak spot. 
Your pocket-book is the only place to hit you. I warn you 
to guard it carefully.” 

“Thank you. Undoubtedly it is unusual for you to meet 
someone who doesn’t kow-tow, bow down like a Chinaman, 
and worship your ancestors and you and your princes as 
the Sons of Heaven. It must be an unique sensation.” 

“Really it has been more interesting to study the perso¬ 
nality of a king who still thinks he can do no wrong.” Wild¬ 
ner had entirely calmed himself by now. “I had no idea 
there was a rebirth of the old vikings, but it is too amusing. 
You ought to know the shock your refusal would give the 
debutantes and their doting parents who have been angling 
for my boys. Your wife and daughter will give you a pretty 
time, I am quite sure.” 

“I am the head of my family. I make all decisions of 
importance for my wife and daughter.” 

“I pity them! But I really must be going. I thank you 
for giving me a chance to show my associates that the old 
man is not too far gone for a real fight yet. I bid you good 
morning, sir! ” 

All Emerson could utter was, “Go to hell! ” but Wildner 
had already strutted out of the office. His rather tired, bored- 
looking eyes had a renewed light in them and at least ten of 
his seventy years had lifted from his slightly stooped shoul¬ 
ders as he left the building. 

Emerson sat with eyes closed and head on his hand for 


THE UNIVERSE OF BUSINESS 


4 7 


several minutes after his visitor had gone. Then he became 
suddenly alert, pressed his buzzer, and started covering a 
scratch pad with figures. 

“Murphy, we are going to have the fight of our lives—a 
battle royal! ” he announced as his secretary responded to his 
call. “Get Glynn on the line and tell him to get busy damn 
quick—every minute counts—tell him to act damn quick! 
Eve got to beat Wildner to it! ” 

The telephone buzzer rang. The secretary answered: 
“Murphy talking—Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Emerson— 
yes—he’s here, just a minute.” Then to Emerson, “It’s your 
wife.” 

Taking the receiver the man addressed said: “Yes, Mary, 
what is it—I am very busy—young Wildner?—To-night? 
What are you going up there for ? ” He hesitated. “All 
right; go ahead. No, I can’t make it myself—too busy. 
Good-bye.” 

Murphy looked at him inquiringly. 

“My wife says Jean Wildner, he’s the old man’s sky- 
dreamer, has asked us up to his place in the Catskills for 
the week-end. He has just installed a high-power radio 
set. I’d like to go, there are some new ideas I’d try out in the 
mountain air. Glynn and the dreamer are great pals. He’ll 
probably be going up, and I could talk with him, but I 
wouldn’t give old Wildner the satisfaction to think I’d hob¬ 
nob with his son. I’d keep the folks away, but I don’t be¬ 
lieve in butting in on their social affairs unless they really 
matter, and this doesn’t. Guess I’ll go have a bite to eat.” 

Murphy again took up the receiver: “Mr. Emerson is 
going to lunch immediately, Miss Hayes.” 

After the young man had helped his superior with his coat, 
he stepped to the door and held it open for him; then hur¬ 
ried to open the door of his own office. Like a flash Emer¬ 
son passed through the large outer office. Miss Hayes was 
holding the gate open, an office boy the hall door and the 


48 


SOUL TOYS 


elevator was waiting. As soon as he stepped in, it shot 
down! The operator opened the gate, the starter was hold¬ 
ing the street door open, his chauffeur had the car door ajar, 
and in less time than it would take the ordinary man to get 
to the elevator, Emerson was riding away. So do the mon- 
archs of the Business Universe avoid chance encounters with 
way-laying solicitors and conserve every moment. 


Part III 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 














•X 



CHAPTER V 


God created the Catskills, Irving was their discoverer; 
John Burroughs became intimately acquainted with them; 
and introduced his friends to the world! Jean’s summer 
vacations from school had most frequently been spent 
camping amid the wooded valleys; on the bare shoulders, 
projecting their nakedness from their green gowns, or 
among the soft waving plumes of the head-dresses of those 
fully clothed. He finally emerged from college, a disciple 
of Burroughs and a soldier in Thoreau’s army—a militant 
naturalist and idealist. His practical father built him a 
comfortable home on High Peak, a miniature mountain, 
solitary in its loneliness. 

“Jean can blow off steam there,” he explained to his 
friends. “I cannot stand him mooning and dreaming around 
me. Mary will take care of him. She has been with us since 
before Jean was born, and understands him better than I 
do and almost as well as his sainted mother did. Now, I can 
forget about him—I have Cornie. He is so sensible—spends 
a couple of hours a day in the office and I can usually find him 
in his room or at his club between ten and eleven o’clock 
every morning.” 

The wide front porch of “Soul’s Desire,” the name Jean 
gave to his house, overhangs a deep valley. Often the clouds 
are beneath it. It stands on the crest of a giant earth wave! 
A petrified ocean with billow after billow, ravine after 
ravine, rolling away from it to magnificent distances. Each 
ridge a hastening comber, curled and ready to break; here a 
spot of white where a sublime breaker toppled over in a 


51 


52 


SOUL TOYS 


foaming waterfall; there a single home, a group of buildings, 
bits of wreckage hesitating for a moment in the stifled swirl 
of the wave! The great ground swell seems to be sweeping 
with a breathless rush toward the little island house, so alone. 
The giant boulders about it seem anxious to drop into the 
on-coming tumult, the pines, firs and hemlocks stretch forth 
their arms as if beckoning to those below to hurry; but 
no nearer does it all come; the green waves never fall, they 
bend gracefully with the wind, they dance in the path 
of the sun, a glorious pageant of light and shadow. They do 
not spend their energy in hopeless breaking of the surf on 
the beach; this tremendous ocean retains all its power, all 
its strength, all its beauty, forever! 

Here, on a clear September day, Jean in rough outing 
suit with open collar was seated in serious conversation with 
a slender, rather emaciated looking young man who had the 
zealot’s sharp featured face and an olive complexion. He 
might have been a Russian poet, but actually was a rabbi. 

“I tell you, Nate,” Jean forcibly brought out his views, 
“the children are not up here long enough at a time—next 
year we must change our schedule.” 

“But that would cut down the number we could bring up.” 

“We will have to increase our facilities. That’s the dis¬ 
heartening thing about this fresh air business, no matter how 
hard one tries he can only scratch the top—there are so many 
poor air-hungry children.” 

“But what a satisfaction it must be to you, Jean, to think 
of the hundreds of East Side kiddies who look on you as a 
Santa Claus.” 

“If it wasn’t for your aid, Nate, and your understanding 
of them, the parents of these Jewish children never would let 
them come up here and my shacks would be tenantless.*’ He 
laughed at the thought of the present crowded condition of 
the buildings, the roofs of which could be seen from where 
they sat. 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


53 


“It means a lot for me to be up here, too! ” the Rabbi 
could not resist saying. 

“I think I’d die without you! Say, do you know I can 
hardly wait until Clare and her mother arrive, to show off 
my radio? I feel like a kid myself. Let’s see if we can hear 
anything now.” 

The house was built with porches on all sides. In the 
center of the roof a small square tower extended, from which 
a wide view could be had. In this room, whither they now 
went, Jean had installed a high power radio set. Both men 
put the receivers to their ears. 

“Nothing but code messages,” Jean said disgustedly. 

“You can’t expect fancy programs all the time!” the 
Rabbi told him. 

They returned to the porch just as an automobile drew 
alongside the steps and Mrs. Emerson and Clare alighted. 

“Welcome! Welcome! ” Jean called enthusiastically. “The 
Radio welcomes you! I know I would never have gotten you 
up here, if it hadn’t been for that.” 

“No, I’ll be frank with you, Jean,” Mrs. Emerson re¬ 
turned, “it was the thought of absolute quiet and rest that 
brought us here.” 

Clare winked slyly at Jean, who' flushed with embarrass¬ 
ment. “I—I want you to meet my good friend Rabbi 
Felsnik. He’s just a beginner at the ministerial game,” 
Jean explained. “You have heard of Rabbi Mentor—Nate’s 
his assistant.” 

“It must be rather hard to be the assistant to a man as 
well known as Rabbi Mentor,” Clare broke into the 
conversation. 

“It’s inspiring—he’s really a big man,” was the Rabbi’s 
reply. 

“I’ll go in and unpack our few things,” Mrs. Emerson 
said. Jean rose to show her the way. 

“What a heavenly spot!” Clare enthused as she took in the 
wonderful mountainscape. 


54 


SOUL TOYS 


“Its bigness quite takes your breath away, doesn’t it ? ” 
The Rabbi chuckled proudly as if he were the owner of the 
mountains. “They have given Jean a big soul/’ he said 
seriously. 

“I have heard a great deal about you from Jean and of the 
discussions that you, Mr. Glynn, and Jean have up here. I 
have named you the Soul-Mates! ” 

“Yes, so Jean told us. I am afraid you have given us too 
serious a title. ,, 

She replied smilingly, “You are serious. In fact just 
now you have an awfully long face!” 

“You will not be offended if I tell you that Beauty always 
makes me serious, whether it be human or nature’s ? ” 

“I didn’t know flattery was taught in divinity schools,” 
she laughingly answered, as her mother and Jean returned. 

“Would you care to go over and see our kiddies? You 
know we have a fresh air camp up here,” Jean asked. 

“Oh, I’d love to!” Clare accepted readily. 

“I prefer to rest here,” Mrs. Emerson replied. 

“You go ahead, Jean, I’ll keep Mrs. Emerson company/’ 
said the young Rabbi. 

“All right! come on, Clare,” Jean said as he took the 
girl’s hand and they ran down the steps like children. 

It was the sunset hour when the mountains seem flooded 
with a celestial glow, a wide shimmer of color deepening 
from violets and purples in the far east through soft greens 
and blues, browns and grays, yellows and oranges—through 
innumerable gradations of marvelous tints and shades to the 
delicate roseate hues and faded carmines surrounding the 
lurid red ball of fire in the west. 

On the porch Mrs. Emerson felt a sense of peace and rest 
overcome her, and she said to the Rabbi, “Communing with 
Nature quiets one’s nerves.” 

“Our modern life is too artificial!” he replied. 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


55 


“Perhaps, but we would grow tired of Nature, if we had 
too much of her.” 

“I don’t think so. She has so many moods. It seems to 
me I could never tire of her.” 

“Well, of course, you are a minister!” 

“A sort of special partner, is that your idea?” he asked 
amusedly. 

She smiled. “We do think of ministers as being a little— 
what shall I say?” 

“Queer ?” 

“No, abnormal or rather, super-normal.” 

“Either below or above the average, is that it?” 

“It depends upon the viewpoint.” 

As Clare and Jean walked toward the cottages, Jean said: 
“It is wonderful to have you here, in my mountains.” 

He turned and looked her in the face, catching there a 
joyous light. 

“I am happy to be here,” she replied. 

They continued their walk in silence until they reached the 
cottages. The children were at supper. They greeted Jean 
with a boisterous, “Hello, Uncle Jean!” 

“Hello, kids! ” he replied heartily. 

Clare and Jean passed around the tables, stopping to pat 
a curly head or kiss a rosy little cheek. 

As they strolled back, arm in arm, Clare said: “It gives you 
pleasure to do for others, doesn’t it?” 

“Why, I never think about my work in that way, I simply 
do what I can.” He pointed behind them; “That’s what 
money is for.” 

They reached the house as the evening shadows were 
enveloping it. 

After dinner they gathered in the tower room, and listened 
to the broadcasting of a symphony orchestra. When the 
concert was over, Jean asked Clare, “Would you care to 
take a walk and see the man in the moon?” 


SOUL TOYS 


56 

I 

“Oh, I’d love to! You will not mind, Mother and Rabbi 
Felsnik? ” 

“Go right ahead. The Rabbi will keep me company,” Mrs. 
Emerson consented. 

Jean led Clare down a rocky path to a miniature plateau, 
a ledge that seemed like a balcony. Together they watched 
the moon rise over the mountains, with the trailing grays and 
coppery blues as the beams touched the massive Gibralters 
and the velvet blackness of the ravines. There was a quiet, 
a solemn peacefulness in the air. Jean threw himself on the 
lichen-carpeted rock at full length, while Clare sat on a huge 
boulder, a picture in her dainty white frock. 

“You look like a Druid priestess, the spirit, the soul of 
these beautiful trees,” said Jean as he glanced from the girl 
to the overhanging branches. 

“And you seem to me like an ancient prophet, way up 
here in these wonderful mountains. It does not seem 
possible that we should both be actually in the twenties; we 
seem hundreds of years old! ” 

“I love to stretch myself and feel the firmness and solidity 
of the earth,” he mused. “It seems to support and strengthen 
me. Often I lie here like this, and looking out into the 
unlimited space my soul seems to float away, to be released 
and commune with all humanity—but I bore you with my 
vaporings.” 

“No, no, don’t stop. I feel, as I listen to you, well, as if I 
were in church. You know your voice sounds here like an 
organ prelude. Please go on—let me hear you think aloud.” 

“Clare, there are times when for an instant I seem to 
have attained my soul’s desire! I have a feeling of eternal 
harmony, as if floating through space, as though a part of 
all creation. Then I feel the ever-lasting rightness of 
things. It is as if love overpowered me, and made me 
understand the mystery of life and death. I do not seem to 
breathe! It is, I imagine, the feeling that one must have 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


5 7 


just before passing from this world—a sort of last 
impression.” 

“How wonderful! But it is more than human affection, 
it is greater than love.” 

“Don’t you think that it finds its renewed birth in a deep, 
pure, abiding love of man for woman, such a love, dear, as 
I have for you?” 

“Why Jean, you have never before told me that you loved 
me! ” 

“I have hesitated, because I did not feel that the kind of 
love I could offer you would be what you would wish.” A 
vision of Clare seated in the Hotel Modore lobby smoking— 
a thought of her surrounded by flashy admirers—crossed his 
mind, and he hesitated; then as he saw her as she sat on the 
rock, a part of nature, of his sincere world, he was 
encouraged to proceed. 

“I am an outdoor man, an unconventional creature. I can 
not stand the crowds of the City; the houses choke me, the 
silly talk bores me; I am only free when I am here, far 
from it all. In the city, I would never have spoken to you 
of my love, but in this spot, away from the crowd, you seem 
so like I am, that I could not restrain myself. Could you 
be happy here with me?” 

“I do not know, Jean. I am a curious girl. I think I 
am happy when I am with my friends in the city; I love 
the gayety, the parties, yes, the dresses and the gossip—but 
I love this too, all nature, all humanity.” 

“And me, you do care for me a little ? ” he murmured. 

“I do,” she said gently; “but I care for your brother also, 
and he too loves me. You are so different from each other— 
I really believe I love you both! ” 

“I cannot offer you all the comfort you are used to, 
because I have only the allowance my father gives me; but 
of course, some day, I suppose I will get my share of his 
estate.” 


58 


SOUL TOYS 


“You know I have enough of my own not to bother about 
that,” she interposed, “but really—I wouldn’t like to ask your 
father for everything I would want. I could never live on 
an allowance, so that settles any immediate answer to your 
question. Cornie at least makes money himself, he wouldn’t 
ask me to live on an allowance,” Clare thought—and voiced 
her thought—along modern lines. 

“You are right, I suppose we must wait,” he sighed. “I am 
not a money-maker. It doesn’t seem worth while to me, but 
I had to tell you how I felt.” 

“Come, we must go back, or mother will think I have 
fallen off of your old mountain,” she declared. Jean stepped 
beneath the rock on which she sat and she jumped into his 
arms. With a little hug he helped her to her feet; then 
started to put his arms around her, but she gave a little 
pull and hopped away. 

Suddenly she turned back and kissed him, full upon the 
lips. “I wonder! I wonder! ” she murmured—then asked; 
“What is love ? ” 

“What is love ? ” he repeated as she swayed in his arms— 
then answered slowly; “I think it must be that feeling that 
I am experiencing now; the sensation of one’s whole being, 
melted and transferred from yourself into another’s keeping, 
as if you are no longer your own master, but dependent on 
the whims and caprices of your beloved.” 

Their hearts so close together, seemed to be trying to 
beat in unison. A first great love, nothing can equal it, 
nothing compare with its astounding revelation! The very 
being of each seems to be infused into the other; a marvelous 
upheaval; a great transformation! After being so over¬ 
whelmed with emotion, a link is forged that never can be 
entirely dissolved, even though the paths of the lovers 
separate; there is always that dim something that has arisen 
from their love, a separate entity, a soul-flower that is ever¬ 
lasting. True Love is the deep well-spring of human life 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


59 


whose waters revive constantly, and is a veritable Fountain 
of Youth; for they who love never grow old; love knows not 
time, only Eternity. It leads to the soul’s release and finally 
to God. 

“I don’t see why we should try to stem the tide of our 
love! Nothing else really matters,” Jean burst out. 

“Yes, it does,” Clare denied. “Lots and lots of things 
matter—particularly to a girl—and more particularly to me 
—so let’s forget the serious and play while we are here.” 

“Anything you say,” he accepted, as they started back to 
the house. 


CHAPTER VI 


Sunday Morning Clare came out on to the porch just as 
Jean came up the steps, an empty market basket on each 
arm. “Good morning, Mr. Early-bird, have you been 
catching worms ? ” She motioned to his baskets. 

“Good morning,” he replied, “No, I haven’t been worm 
hunting 1 ” 

“Well, give an account of yourself! ” she urged. 

“I’ve been doing my usual Sunday morning tasks. An 
old couple live in a little cottage over there/’ he said 
pointing to an adjoining hill. “It’s pretty hard for them to 
get provisions so I have formed a habit of taking over their 
staples for the week; and then the other way is a bunch of 
college lads who appreciate Mary’s cookies and some of 
her other goodies, and I take them over. I don’t think I 
could enjoy my breakfast without the airing these visits 
give me.” 

“You certainly keep busy, don’t you ? ” 

“Well, I don’t think I am exactly lazy.” 

“Good morning! ” Mrs. Emerson broke in, “I am as 
hungry as I can be; where is the Rabbi ? ” 

“Oh, he’s down at the cottage—always eats breakfast 
with the boys—you’ll pardon him?” Jean explained his 
absence. 

“Surely; then we can breakfast now?” 

“Directly,” Jean assented. 

Shortly after breakfast Enoch Glynn arrived by auto. 
After the greetings were over they all proceeded to the 
tower where Glynn succeeded in getting messages that Mr. 
Emerson had directed be sent from the broadcasting station 
in the Universal Radio Building. 


60 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


61 


Just before dinner all the guests gathered on the front 
porch. 

“The Soul-Mates have quite an addition to their ranks 
to-day,” Glynn ventured with a smile. 

“Oh, has Jean told you about my name for you?” asked 
Clare. 

“Yes, and I wish you’d tell me just how you struck it.” 

“The name seemed just right for you,” she remarked 
seriously, as her glance took in the Rabbi and Jean as well 
as Glynn. 

“A Rabbi—a Christian Scientist—and what do you style 
yourself, Jean?” Mrs. Emerson smilingly asked. 

“I’m a hybrid Catholic! ” 

“That’s a new one—how do you get that way ? ” Clare 
chuckled. 

“Oh, you straight-laced Methodist, you wouldn’t appre¬ 
ciate my position. I think I understand the Church as well 
as any priest, but I cannot be fettered with dogma, form, 
or ritual. Oh, I go occasionally to mass. It uplifts my 
soul and helps me to think—but I like to feel absolutely 
free.” 

“I am only straight-laced when mother is around,” Clare 
retorted. “I like new things, whether they are religious or 
anything else.” 

“Glynn doesn’t quite grasp Christian Science,” said Jean, 
with a smile toward the other man. 

“Yes, I’ll admit it,” assented Glynn; “I can’t grasp the 
meaning of Science, but I know it has helped me. But, Miss 
Emerson, why do you call Jean, a Soul-Mate?” 

Clare became serious: “He has often said that he prayed 
that he might have a soul more than equal to the fullness of 
life; to the emptiness of death;—yes, even far beyond any 
conception of those things, past and present. He wants a 
fuller soul-life, a broader soul-nature, and to secure a deeper 
insight into the mystery of being, of life and death, of the 


62 


SOUL TOYS 


very essence of existence and non-existence. Isn’t that it? ” 
She turned questionably to Jean, whose face had taken on 
a glow as though he had just looked upon a very beautiful 
thing. 

“Yes, my prayer has been that I might discover a mode of 
life for the soul, so that the inner consciousness might not 
only conceive of such being, but actually enjoy it on this 
earth. I wished to search out a new set of ideas on which 
the mind should work to attain moral perfection. All our 
present conceptions are based on tradition, I aim to kindle 
a spark for the new fire that will consume all present 
thought.” 

“Rather a large undertaking,” scoffed Mrs. Emerson, “I 
think the old world has gone along pretty well in its present 
state, don’t you, Mr. Glynn?” 

“Yes and no! ” Glynn parried. “We have done pretty well, 
I’ll admit; but we could have done better, and we can do 
better! ” 

“What I propose,” Jean resumed, “is to co-ordinate the 
action of the soul and body and thus make human endeavor 
automatic. Through the perfection of soul-life, Man's life 
will become constantly happy, passion will disappear and love 
be uppermost. Health will be forever guaranteed, sickness 
unknown. I do not want soul-life after death only, but here 
on earth.” 

“How different from the Heart-Mates’ motto! ” Clare 
thought, as her eyes met Jean’s. 

“Your mind, Jean, ever voyages in strange, uncharted 
seas,” was the characterization made by the Rabbi; “but 
who knows, you may discover a new continent of ideas—a 
Continent of Soul Life! ” 

Suddenly Glynn cried out, “Look at the airship! ” 

“Probably, it’s Cornie! ” Mrs. Emerson said: “I met him 
yesterday morning and he said he might fly up here.” 

Jean and Clare involuntarily exchanged a quick glance, 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


63 


which the latter’s mother caught. She frowned as she watched 
the plane approach. 

They all went down on the lawn beside the house and 
greeted Cornie as he deftly brought his ship to earth. 
“Hello everybody! ” he called out, “just dropped down to see 
you.” 

“Dropped is right,” Glynn chuckled. “Hope you didn’t 
hit any radio waves.” 

Cornie laughed, “Nope, I was very careful.” 

As the others sauntered back to the porch, Cornie kept 
alongside Clare, and whispered: “You know I’d fly to the 
ends of the earth to see you! ” 

“Oh, I thought you came up to see mother ? ” 

“You know better than that—I broke a dozen dates to 
come here. I was so lonesome.” 

She threw him an amused glance. 

“You seem to have no trouble in keeping yourself busy 
without me,” she pouted, but I have been enjoying Jean’s 
company, so we are quits.” 

“I suppose you two have been discussing your souls 
again,” Cornie replied sarcastically. 

“More serious things than Beauty, I will admit.” 

Her companion did not quite like the sound of that last 
remark. It might mean that Jean had been making love to 
his girl. “Well, now he has had his turn, I will take mine,” 
he asserted, arrogantly assuming her submission. 

“He is our host, I owe him some attention even if your 
lordship is here,” she mocked. Clare never could accustom 
herself to Cornie’s air of ownership, as if she were his to 
command. 

“You better fasten that ship of yours pretty tight or you 
will be minus one aeroplane. There is some breeze blowing 
up,” Jean cautioned his brother, as he returned to Clare’s 
side. 


64 


SOUL TOYS 


As Cornie moved away, Jean could not help but ask, “Do 
you care more for my brother than for me? ” 

She was spared an answer by the arrival of the others of 
the party who had been strolling about the grounds. 

When Cornie came back from attending to the plane he 
said to Clare, “I’d like to stretch after my ride; wish you’d 
take a walk with me.” 

She looked questioningly at Jean before answering, “Go 
ahead,” he said, with none too good a grace. “I’ll keep Mrs. 
Emerson company.” 

As the two passed down the steps, Mrs. Emerson’s gaze 
followed them. “Cornie is such a dear boy,” she said; and 
then, as if it were a mere passing thought, “Do you suppose, 
Jean, that your father will leave him more than yourself ? ” 

“How should I know ? ” was the somewhat rude response. 
“I never think about such things.” 

“I just thought—possibly his being in the business with 
your father, you know.” 

“I never noticed that he spent a great deal of time in 
dad’s office; but it is his money, I guess he can do as he 
pleases with it,” Jean retorted tartly. 

“Of course, I only wondered.” It was rather plain to Jean 
that the desire was parent to the question. He realized that 
Cornie had a warm adherent in the youthful-appearing 
mother whom he was constantly complimenting. 

“I think a man should settle down when he marries, that 
is, go in business or something,” continued Mrs. Emerson. 

“I never want to settle down,” Jean felt compelled to say. 
“There are too many so deeply rooted that nothing can move 
them. They sink down in the slough of selfish routine, and 
stagnate.” 

“A lot of time apparently is wasted in keeping ourselves 
in trim,” was the thought that his statement brought forth. 
“I always say that I wish it didn’t take so much trouble and 
time to keep thin, and one’s face and hair in condition to 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


65 


be presentable; but it’s part of the spirit of our times—to 
grow old is to die.” 

“That sounds like Cornie,” thought Jean; “only he would 
put it, ‘To be ugly or homely is a crime and an outrage 
against my sensibilities/ ” Somehow Clare’s mother always 
irritated him. He never could agree with her views however 
much he desired to placate her. 

As soon as Clare and Cornie were out of sight of the 
others, Cornie put his arm around the girl and drew her to 
him. While she could feel his heart beat rapidly, it seemed 
out of harmony with hers, and no flush of love overcame 
her as when Jean had carried her. But while, when Cornie 
lightly touched her lips with his and said, “You little beauty, 
you know I am just wild about you,” she gave him a gentle 
shove in remonstrance, she nevertheless smiled her pleasure 
at his vehemence. 

After dinner, the party sat on the porch admiring the 
gorgeous afterglow of the sunset on the miniature mountain 
peaks. 

“I have never cared for the Catskills,” Mrs. Emerson 
began, “they seem so much more plebian than the 
Adirondacks.” 

“I like it here, it seems just right,” Jean disagreed with 
her; “these mountains,” his gesture took in the whole out¬ 
look, “ are not as big as the Adirondacks of course, but they 
seem more human—I can grasp their meaning better—they 
are not too awesome. One loses contact with the earth but 
still has its pattern at his feet! ” 

Mrs. Emerson shrugged her shoulders as if to intimate 
that his opinion did not count, and suggested a game of 
bridge. 

“Jean doesn’t play,” Clare informed her mother. 

“Perhaps Mr. Glynn—” Mrs. Emerson began. 

“Neither the Rabbi nor I play,” said that gentleman. “We’ll 
take a walk, if you don’t mind.” 


66 


SOUL TOYS 


“Very well, we can get along with a dummy—three handed 
—I couldn’t stand it here all evening without a game/' she 
retorted crisply. 

“Go right ahead,” Jean said, “I want you to enjoy your¬ 
self, don’t mind me.” 

“No young man’s education is complete, in these times, 
unless he plays a good bridge game,” was the comment of 
Clare’s mother, as she rose with an imperious toss of her 
head, which seemed always to be held at such an angle that 
she appeared to be looking down on the world in general and 
particularly on whomsoever she was addressing. 

“Mother,” Clare could not conceal her disapproval, “it isn’t 
indispensable, you know. And Jean did his duty in France 
just the same as Cornie, even if he couldn’t play bridge.” 

The latter glanced at her with a hurt look, feeling intui¬ 
tively that she was defending his brother, while Jean’s face 
plainly showed his appreciation. 

“Of course, both boys did their duty nobly and thank God, 
they were spared,” declared Mrs. Emerson abruptly. 

“Let me put a table out here,” said Jean, hastening inside 
to get one. Mrs. Emerson, Clare, and Cornie settled down 
to the enjoyment of their game, and Jean slipped out almost 
to the end of the big ledge on which the house was located 
and took his favorite position at full length on the ground. 
The night seemed to wrap him in her cloak of darkness and 
silence—but his thoughts raced on! 

He suffered a certain naive apprehension. He felt 
positive that Clare loved him, still he had an indefinite fear 
and hopeless sinking feeling. It was not the thought of the 
possibility of her refusal to marry him—there was nothing 
sensual in his love. That was a pure feeling that asked only 
the pleasure of enjoying his beloved’s company, of having 
her close to him, that he might gaze into her eyes. Somehow 
they seemed to be the means of expressing her love. 

Eyes are the lamps of the soul, the windows of the heart 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


67 


One may sit opposite a fellow being, and if their souls 
are not attuned he might as well be a million miles away, for 
all that he can read of the inner being of the individual 
actually so close. But once let the souls of these same ones 
meet in a common love, a deep spiritual feeling thus results— 
an illumination, a clarity of view as into clear limpid water. 
The eyes are as mirrors reflecting the love light to and fro. 

Jean had a dim foreboding of the uncertainty of their 
future. He who boasted of his liberty of action, felt a thick 
gloom retarding him. The conception of his own brother as 
his rival would not rest for a second in his mind. He must 
subdue himself, conquer his longings, use his self-restraint. 
But man’s passions are like the running water; once it has 
overflowed it can never be restored, so having been indulged, 
they cannot be restrained, whether the passions be pure or 
impure. Water can only be controlled by dikes and wells, 
so the passions must be ruled by the laws of propriety and 
conscience, by the dictates of the soul. 

Man has his high and low emotional tides. Jean was in 
the midst of a depressing low tide when, as if from the great 
space surrounding him, Clare’s sweet voice emerged: 
“What is my perfect one dreaming of now?” 

He shrank from her like one fording a cold stream. 
“Please do not jest. I feel so insignificant tonight. I have 
been in a torment of fear that I might lose you, my soul’s de¬ 
sire; and all my fine thinking seems to fade into a single 
ardent wish just to be with you, to look into your eyes for¬ 
ever ! ” 

“Jean, dear,” she bent over and kissed him, “you are really 
like a little child, you want to play with me always.” 

“I want you to be my life playmate, my Soul Toy,” he said 
simply. 

“You forget we are no longer children, and must face 
real life. I hope you will always be my friend, no matter 
what the future may bring.” 


68 


SOUL TOYS 


“My life, my soul, are yours, Clare, to the end of both—• 
yours to command and theirs to obey! ” 

“You will always be in my heart, Jean, wherever I may 
be and whatever I may do.” Again she stooped to kiss 
him—then was gone. 

Jean jumped up quickly and followed her. The others 
were seated on the porch as Clare ran up the steps. Just as 
she reached the top one, she slipped and fell on the porch 
floor. Jean reached her quickly, and with Cornie helped 
her up. 

“What was the idea? ” Cornie jerked out angrily, “playing 
tag?” 

The sweetness of her kiss was still on Jean’s lips and he 
could not reply. 

“I was clumsy—thought I was a kid—and found out I was 
an old woman,” she said as she stood rubbing her ankle. 

“Does it hurt ? ” her mother queried anxiously. 

“It surely does, but I guess I can walk on it.” She 
attempted to do so, but her foot gave way under her and Jean 
and Cornie carried her to the swing. 

“You better go in,” said Mrs. Emerson. 

“Let me try Science! ” begged Glynn, “I know I can help 
you. If my healer were here he would have you all right 
in a jiffy. I don’t know how he does it, I really can’t grasp 
it—but I can read to you and maybe you can. I never 
volunteer my aid but—” 

“Thank you, Mr. Glynn, I think I would better go to my 
room, and then I will gladly have you read to me. I want 
to know more about Christian Science.” 

“Will you please call a doctor, Jean?” asked Mrs. Emer¬ 
son, as she saw the flash of pain on Clare’s face as they helped 
her to her room on the first floor. 

“Mother, please don’t get excited, wait and see how badly 
my ankle is sprained.” 

“There is one at Phoenicia, I can call if you wish,” Jean 
explained. 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


69 


Mrs. Emerson nodded. A little later she reported that 
Clare was feeling much better but would remain in her 
room, and: “Would Mr. Glynn please sit outside her window 
and read to her ? ” 

Glynn excused himself, very importantly brought out his 
“Science and Health,” and seating himself in front of Clare’s 
window, began to read:— 

“In Science, Man is the offspring of Spirit. 

We cannot circumscribe happiness within the limits of 
personal sense. The senses confer no real enjoyment.” 

Clare thought to herself what pleasure the sense of resting 
her head on Jean’s breast, of hearing his heart beat, of feeling 
his love permeating her senses, had given her. 

“Nothing is real and eternal but God, and his ideas . . 
. . . . Matter possesses neither sensation nor life. . . 
The only sufferer is the material mind,” Glynn intoned 
softly. 

Jean called out, “Isn’t there anything we can do to aid in 
this cure?” 

“Keep thinking ‘God is love’,” answered Glynn. “That 
will put you i na proper frame of mind and aid the healing.” 
Mrs. Emerson shrugged her shoulders in disdain. 

“I think I can sleep now,” called Clare. “Thank you so 
much, Mr. Glynn, I feel much better.” 

When the Scientist returned to the others, Jean said that he 
must tell Clare good-night. He went to her window and 
called, “Are you asleep yet, Clare ?” 

“No,” she answered, “just about to go there—your friend 
has been trying to show me the way to find contentment, even 
in pain.” 

“I can tell you a surer and easier way,” he said quietly. 

“Oh do—I love short cuts! ” 

“If you will only love me as much as I do you, our souls 
will be released through the strength of our mutual love, 
and we will find contentment together.” 


70 


SOUL TOYS 


She drank in his words with eagerness. “I like your plan 
much better—if only we could hand in hand wander over 
the earth in search of Happiness! ” 

“It is very difficult to make love through a drawn window 
shade/’ he jested, “but what is to prevent us making the 
kind of search you say ? ” 

“The Reality of Life! Our saner natures will not let us 
follow our dreams, in which we annihilate time, space, the 
world—even our own bodies. Life cannot be all spiritual 
enjoyment, any more than entirely bodily pleasures. There 
must be a happy medium. But I really must try to get 
some rest.” 

“Indeed you should, and I would not for the world be the 
cause of your losing one second of it. So, pleasant dreams! 
and I do hope that your ankle will be all healed by morning! ” 
“Thank you, very much. Good-night! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


It was with a quick, confident step that the Scientist walked 
to Clare’s door and knocked sharply. 

“The little ankle is all well this morning,” he affirmed as 
he entered at her invitation. 

“Not quite, but a great deal better, thank you,” she smiled 
as she answered from the day-bed where she was reclining. 

“You see,” he chuckled, “it always works, and I can’t 
grasp what does it either.” Mournfully he shook his head. 

“You better have your breakfast here, my dear,” said 
Mary, the housekeeper, as she came into the room. 

“No, I am quite sure I can hobble out to the table.” 

“Of course she can,” confirmed Glynn glibly. 

“Arnica is a wonderful thing, Mr. Glynn,” announced 
Mary. “I have never known it to fail, if no bones are 
broken. I went in and poulticed her ankle several times 
during the night.” 

“Sh, Sh! ” breathed the Rabbi, who came up to the door. 
“Now you have done it; spoiled Glynn’s day! ” 

“No, it was Science. What good can arnica do? ” sneered 
the latter. “Bosh! didn’t I read to her, and I gave her ab¬ 
sent treatment several times during the night, too. Thought 
you always breakfasted with the kiddies.” 

“I am making an exception to-day—Miss Emerson’s ac¬ 
count.” 

With the Scientist on one side and the Rabbi on the 
other, Clare slowly made her way to the table. When they 
were seated, Glynn continued, “It is wonderful what Science 
can do. It never fails, if properly applied.” 

“That’s right,” mocked Jean, “always leave room for an 
alibi; but surely there is something to it. Look at the thou¬ 
sands who believe in it! ” 


71 


72 


SOUL TOYS 


“Science came on to the world stage at exactly the right 
moment,” the Rabbi told them. “Fifty years ago it would 
have been laughed off the face of the globe; fifty years from 
now who knows what growth it may have attained, or 
whether it will exist at all.” 

“Christian Science, New Thought, Ethical Culture, The¬ 
osophy, Spiritualism and all the new religions, fads and 
fancies, are the result of a cry for freedom of thought—that 
the old religions have refused,” Jean stated as his belief. 

“When people eat unripe grapes and drink wine fresh 
from the wine-press, they must expect to suffer sooner or 
later,” added Mrs. Emerson, as her version of the new cults. 

“Science offers a panacea for all ills. You know the 
growth of the patent medicine business—well here you have 
it—ennobled and spiritualized—a mental pill that tries to 
reach body and soul and often intoxicates into a somewhat 
delirious happiness,” the Rabbi explained. 

“Well, now that we have conclusively proved that we are 
all exactly right in our ideas,” jeered Clare, “someone can 
help me out on to the porch.” Jean and Cornie made a seat 
of their hands and carried her to the swing. 

“As soon as the doctor comes, we’ve got to get started. 
I’ll be late for an engagement with my dressmaker now,” 
Mrs. Emerson said sharply. 

“Doctor ? ” Clare asked in surprise. 

“Jean called Dr. Swift from Phoenicia at my insistence. 
The doctor said he’d be over the first thing this morning, I 
want to be sure there are no broken bones.” 

“How foolish, Mother. I could tell if there were any. It 
is much better.” 

“There he comes now! ” Jean called as he caught sight of 
an approaching auto. 

The doctor was introduced and Clare said to him: “I 
rather feel you have been brought here unnecessarily.” 

“Let me see the ankle, Miss Emerson,” the latter re- 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


73 


plied. “That will tell the story.” After a brief examination 
he told her that it was severely strained, and that she ought 
not to step on her foot for at least a week. “While not 
serious, such bruises become very painful if proper care is 
not taken,” he warned. She was to continue the arnica poul¬ 
tices and keep the affected part bandaged very tightly. 

“Please stay awhile and rest yourself, Doctor,” Jean hos¬ 
pitably requested. “I want you to meet a noted Christian 
Scientist, Mr. Glynn. I am sure you will interest each 
other.” Then he called loudly to Glynn, “Here is a bogy- 
man, a real doctor—come and meet him.” 

The Scientist approached the doctor with outstretched 
hand. 

“Glad to meet you, Doctor. Did Miss Emerson tell you of 
her great healing ? ” 

“Not exactly,” replied the medical man, as he looked to 
the rest with a puzzled expression. 

“You surely are being well looked after, Clare,” her 
mother told her, “you have a doctor and a Scientist aiding 
you.” 

“I will take the doctor’s pill, and let the Scientist read to 
me,” was her ready reply. 

“But really you can’t do that,” objected the Scientist. 
“They will not work together.” 

“I will take each separately then,” she laughingly replied. 

“I wonder, will Materia Medic a ever be mixed with Sci¬ 
ence ? ” asked the Rabbi, who had sauntered up to the group. 

“I am not fool enough not to realize that there is something 
to it,” admitted the doctor. 

“You see, you hear! ” gleefully cried the Scientist. 

“We are using mental suggestion and will-power ourselves 
in many cases of mental and nervous disease; but neither am 
I so foolish as to think that Science can heal a valvular heart- 
leak or knit a broken leg unaided. Some seemingly remark¬ 
able cures are merely nature taking its course alone; because 


74 


SOUL TOYS 


all the doctor can do is to help nature set in action her own 
healing powers. But many imaginary troubles are made to 
vanish through Science.” 

“You see, doctors use it! ” Glynn selected that part of the 
doctor’s statement that pleased him. 

“Is that a recommendation or not?” Jean inquired ironi¬ 
cally. 

“French surgeons use hypnotism, to some extent, instead 
of anaesthetics. We are on the threshold of great discov¬ 
eries. The witchcraft of our ancestors is the psychic phe¬ 
nomena of the present time. Science has touched on the new 
era.” 

“So Science will find its fruition in Medicine?” asked 
Mrs. Emerson shrewdly. 

“Rather Medicine recognizes the natural limitations of 
Science,” answered the doctor; “but really I must leave now. 
Very glad to have met you all. And keep off that foot, Miss 
Emerson—good-day.” 

Mrs. Emerson gave voice to her plans: “Clare, Cornie has 
offered to ride you to ‘World’s End’ in his ship, so I think 
Mr. Glynn and I would better get a start; and perhaps the 
Rabbi would like to ride back with us ? ” 

“I am sure I would be very much pleased to do so. I 
must get back.” 

“We will start in the plane right after you’ve gone,” 
Cornie said. 

“What’s the hurry?” Jean objected. 

“I think it would be well to wait until the sun gets a little 
stronger; a few hours more or less,” Mrs. Emerson sug¬ 
gested. 

“Very well,” Cornie agreed. 

“Take good care of our little girl,” Mrs. Emerson ordered 
Cornie, as she drove away. 

“I’ve got to spend about an hour going over the plane; 
you’ll excuse me ? ” Cornie asked Clare regretfully. 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


75 


“Surely. Go right ahead. Jean will keep me company.” 

After Cornie left they remained for some time in silence, in 
that sweet companionship that needs no words, and watched 
the clouds balancing like gigantic puffs of steam, ghost ships 
sailing by in white fleets. It was a day when the air was so 
clear that a view for many miles could be had, and they dis¬ 
covered new glories in the familiar scene. 

“Clare, many a morning, when I am here alone, I jump 
out of my bed about dawn, throw off my night-clothing, and 
climb out of my window as God made me! I revel in the 
feeling of the touch of the dew on the grass, the ‘good-morn¬ 
ing’ whispered by the swaying trees, and the glory of the 
brightening heavens. They come to me as at no other time— 
I defy man-m^de restrictions—all artificialities. I feel I am 
a part of all nature; no human impediments retard my 
thoughts—I am free from every trammel—free body and 
soul! I sprawl at full length in the grass. I grasp the roots. 
I erase from my conception all traditions—all knowledge of 
ages gone by—I stand face to face with Nature—the mys¬ 
terious, unknowable; I commune with my God! I feel like 
the man primeval; the world is at my feet—I am Adam in 
the garden—only lacking an Eve—you, my dear—to make 
this Paradise!” Jean ended his rhapsody abruptly, turning 
a glowing face to the girl. 

“You are the eternal Adam, hoping, praying, dreaming,” 
was her only response. 

“And you the everlasting Eve, made to help man reach 
heights impregnable without your aid! ” 

“Eve tempted Adam. I would hold you back, down to 
earth, for I am afraid to climb too high. I am too earthly 
for you, Jean.” 

“It was through Eve’s tempting Adam, that the Book of 
Knowledge was opened forever and the distinction between 
right and wrong realized. The eternal struggle, through 
which we gain the heights, would never have been started 
had Adam refused to secure the apple for Eve.” 


76 


SOUL TOYS 


They luxuriated in their poetic dreams for a time, when 
Clare murmured : “Your whole being has one purpose. Your 
soul desire is the central clue to your existence. While I am 
many-sided, at least two-sided, I am just as earthly as soul- 
like.” 

“You are the normal, healthy individual; I am a crazy 
dreamer! ” he humbled himself. 

“No! No! ” she cried. “You are a saint! Yes, a saint! 
No selfishness, no impure passions, you are my ideal! ” 

“To be your ideal—what more could I ask? ” 

“But to reach your ideal, to possess it, to call it your very 
own, would be to destroy your ambition. I would exile you 
from your paradise.” 

Cornie came back somewhat soiled looking. “Til run in 
and clean up, then we can start any time.” 

Clare nodded—Jean sighed. “If only I could keep her 
here! ” he thought. 

“Will you bring my wraps ? ” asked Clare. “Then I will 
not have to go inside again.” 

When Jean returned Clare said softly, “This has been a 
wonderful week-end, but I am so sorry to have spoiled it by 
my clumsiness. I suppose all sweet memories have a touch 
of pain.” 

“I wish I could save you from ever suffering; I’d willingly 
give my life! ” said Jean. 

“Thanks! ” She patted his hand. Cornie saw the gentle 
touch and hurriedly said, “Well, let’s be off.” 

The brothers carried her to the ship and lifted her in. 
Cornie started the engine and climbed in after adjusting their 
headgear and coats. Jean undid the fastenings and the car 
rolled away. 

He waved good-bye as Clare and Cornie sailed off into 
space. It seemed as if he were letting Clare go forever with 
his brother. The thought came, that if the latter ever asked 
him to surrender Clare to him, he would do so. The gentle, 


THE CONTINENT OF SOUL LIFE 


77 


loving, soul-filled character could no more withstand the 
affirmative, egotistical, passion-filled brother, than the breeze 
of the fan can prevail against the hurricane. 

What exhilaration, what freeing of earthly bonds, to sail 
in the air like birds! to have spread beneath you a picture- 
puzzle of Earth, fitted together nicely with land and water, 
mountains and plains, cities and farms, lights and shadows— 
for you to select the piece that will fit with any mental pic¬ 
ture you may form. But accustomed to aviation as Clare 
was, this flight seemed different from any other that she had 
ever taken. There was an intensity of feeling in Cornie that 
communicated itself to her own being and made her feel 
vaguely fearful. She was trusting her life to him just as she 
would if she actually were married to him. She closed her 
eyes. 

Suddenly the motor stopped! Cornie shouted: “Sit still— 
don’t move! It’ll go again in a second! ” It was like a sud¬ 
den clamor of fire bells—shouts—rushing of people—then 
instant silence! Complete—terrifying! 

They began to fall! In the next few awful seconds the 
wind whispered to Clare, “Death! Death! ” She looked 
below; the earth was flying up to meet them; they would be 
dashed against it! 

“Jean! Jean! ” she called silently. Now she knew! She 
never had loved anyone but Jean! She longed for him, 
she saw him before her! Still, as she watched Cornie work¬ 
ing feverishly at the mechanism, she thought how helpless 
Jean would be in such an emergency. “Would Cornie suc¬ 
ceed in getting the motor to respond to his urging?” Her 
voice was gone, she could not ask him! Her heart seemed 
to have stopped beating. There was no bottom—she would 
keep falling—falling forever—falling with Cornie—to rise 
with Jean! Her brain was stunned—her thoughts muddled! 

At last the propeller started to revolve once more; the 
motor pounded—pounded—church bells ringing in her ears— 


78 


SOUL TOYS 


“Life! Life! ” the wind called. The Jean she had visioned 
faded into a real Cornie. They began to rise, higher and 
higher, and proceeded on their way. 

“How wonderfully quick you worked! ” She could not 
restrain this expression of her admiration as she regained 
hold on herself. “We really were in danger, weren’t we? ” 

“Well, now that it is all over, yes. If I hadn’t been able 
to straighten out the trouble when I did, in a few seconds 
more it would have been too late. We would have been 
goners sure enough.” 

She shuddered, as she drew closer to him as if to share 
some of his confidence. 

With no further mishaps, they continued on their way 
until they landed at their destination at “World’s End.” 

It seemed an eternity since they had left “Soul’s Desire.” 
But actually only a little time had passed. 

Later in the day Cornie returned to New York. During 
the following ten days, until Clare wrote him that her ankle 
was entirely healed, he sent flowers to her daily. 


Part IV 


CLASHING WORLDS 








CHAPTER VIII 


The long shadows of the late fall afternoon were creeping 
in through the windows of Walter Emerson’s private office 
across the open stretch of floor and up the east wall. 

Murphy, just outside, could hear his chief’s ceaseless 
pacing back and forth, now across the rug, now on the bare 
spaces close to the window, then wheeling about and back 
again. The sound of his footsteps made Murphy nervous, 
it was so unusual for his chief to give any evidence of his 
feelings. He could picture him with his hands clasped behind 
his back or mussing up his hair, his face with new wrinkles 
and his shoulders in an unaccustomed stoop. 

“What a hectic time the last two weeks has been! ” thought 
Murphy. Watching with eagle eyes, the master and secre¬ 
tary had seen the dips and bulges of a forced market in 
Universal Radio. With every rise, with every fall, Emerson 
bought and bought while powerful financial interests were 
checking his efforts. As he bought they sold short, and 
forced him to keep on buying in order to hold what he 
already had acquired at a high price. 

The buzzer rang. Murphy jumped. “See what it is 
now,” Emerson ordered. The secretary turned to the small 
adjoining room where a ticker clicked off the stock market 
quotations. 

“Twelve,” he said. 

“Twelve ? My God, won’t they ever stop pounding ? Call 
Glynn! ” 

As soon as the broker was on the wire, Emerson called into 
the phone, “How many have we now ? ” 


81 


82 


SOUL TOYS 


“Your holdings approximate eleven million shares,” was 
the answer. 

“Eleven million! ” Emerson repeated. “At the high price 
Eve agreed to pay—if they continue to force it down—I’ll 
have to let go ! But Til stop them yet—I’ll not let go ! ” 

“You’ve got to! ” was the reply, “our brokers are getting 
uneasy—demanding more collateral as Universal goes down. 
I think it’s time to quit! ” 

“Come over right away,” Emerson ordered, as he banged 
up the receiver. 

He turned to Murphy. “Quit ? Hell! How can I ? 
Doesn’t he realize how deep I am in now? I haven’t the 
money to pay up for all I have bought, and I’ve borrowed 
every cent I can lay my hands on. If Wildner wasn’t out to 
get me, I’d win. I’ve my seventy-five per cent now. But he’s 
taken the control of my market away. I had to buy at his 
price and then by selling short, he reduced the value of my 
stock.” 

He started his cell-walking again. Murphy tip-toed out. 

Glynn arrived. His usual calmness was disturbed. He 
looked distinctly worried. 

“What shall I do ? ” Emerson asked Glynn. 

The latter could not talk. “The chief asking for orders! 
It showed he was shaking! ” Glynn silently brooded. At 
last he said, “There is only one thing for you to do now. 
You can’t hold out. You are absolutely at Wildner’s mercy! ” 

“My God! It’s true! But I can hold out for a few days 
more; maybe the market might go up, then I could hold on.” 

“But if they continue to shove it down?” 

Emerson shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it means 
the end.” 

They were interrupted by the buzz of the telephone. 
Emerson took up the receiver. “Well? ” 

“Mr. Wildner wishes to see you at once, if convenient,” 
Murphy’s voice came over the wire. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


83 


“All right, ask him to come over.” 

“What do you suppose he has up his sleeve now ? ” 
Emerson asked. 

“He’s going to offer to buy you out. He’s getting tired of 
the fight.” 

“No, he’s too far over-sold. He’s several million short! 
He’s coming to me! ” 

“I wish that were true! ’’-Glynn smiled sadly. “You forget 
he has unlimited resources behind him. One might almost 
say the whole country is behind him, with his banking 
connections.” 

Emerson stopped him. “It’s true, I’m alone, but I think 
his friends are probably tired of putting up for him. I’ve 
decided, Glynn, I’m going to hold out for fifteen. They’ll 
come to me yet! ” 

“I am afraid you are making a mistake, Emerson.” 

“Mistake! Hell! Firmness—that’s what’s needed in an 
emergency like this. I’ll not give in. Universal is my life 
blood! ” 

“Good luck to you then; I’ll be going.” 

“Good-bye; I’ll let you know what he says.” 

“Don’t forget you’ll have to put up more collateral soon 
or be wiped out,” Glynn shot out as he left. 

Emerson started to resume his pacing but suddenly sat 
down, realizing that he must pull himself together in order 
to give the appearance of indifference. 

Wildner arrived. No words of civility were wasted. 
“Well,” began Emerson, “We’ve had some fight, eh! ” He 
was trying to exhibit cock-sureness. 

“Have had is correct,” Wildner jeered. 

Emerson look up quickly, “It isn’t over yet, by any means.” 

“You have some very, very pressing personal obligations,” 
Wildner began in a matter-of-fact tone, “which necessitate 
your disposing, under certain conditions, of all of your inter¬ 
ests in Universal Radio to me at twelve dollars a share. The 


84 


SOUL TOYS 


alternative is to hold out until your stock is worthless and 
your interest is gone anyway.” 

“You are not very optimistic as to my future.” 

“To the contrary—I am, very—provided the condition—” 

“Provided ? ” 

“A certain suggestion I recently made to you.” 

“Relative to what?” 

“The subject of our last interview.” 

Emerson looked at him steadily, a look of hatred growing 
stronger every second, then slowly bit off his words: “So my 
daughter is the price—of my business salvation—is that 
it?” 

Wildner shrugged his shoulders. He was amused at 
Emerson’s bluntness. 

“I don’t think your daughter would approve your manner 
of referring to her friendship with my sons.” 

“Friendship! Bah! Why bandy words? You think you 

are in a position to force me to do anything you may ask. 

You not onlv want to kick me out of the business I have 
* 

built up, but you want to steal my daughter from me—and 
you hold up the ghost of poverty before me to scare me into 
acceptance. It’s really very childish. Thank God I’m not 
yet a pauper, and I don’t have to sell my child to you! ” 

“Then I take it you are not yet ready to call, ‘enough’! ” 

Emerson was fast losing control of himself. “You expect 
to administer further punishment for my refusal to obey 
orders, I suppose ? ” 

“Well, we will not exactly lay down on the job at this 
stage of the game, but I had hoped I might be able to save 
you something, for your daughter’s sake.” 

“My daughter’s sake! You mean your son’s sake!” 

“You have a curious habit of interpreting what I say! ” 
Wildner chuckled as he replied. 

“I do not think either of us can gain anything by 
prolonging this conversation! ” said Emerson. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


85 


“Yes, you are right, but I had hoped you might see the 
light. I really have no desire to force you to the wall, but 
you insist upon making me do so. However, you may 
change your mind, but of course you understand the twelve 
offer is only good for to-day. I’ll bid you good-morning! ” 

Emerson nodded curtly and rang for Murphy to show 
his visitor out. “Well, Murphy,” he began after Wildner 
had gone, “he’s offered me twelve.” 

“And you—? ” 

“Turned it down. Why not? I’m not through yet. Get 
Glynn.” 

When Emerson had his broker on the wire he said: “Put 
her up ten points to-day, Glynn, no matter how many you 
have to buy. I’ll show ’em there’s life in the old boy yet! ” 
He smiled as he prepared to renew the fight.” 

However, late in the day when he read his broker’s report, 
he found that although the latter had actually succeeded in 
forcing Universal Radio up to 20 during the day, it had 
closed at 10! 

It was very evident that the shorts had sold much more 
than he had bought, and the net result of the day was a 
greater debt for the new stock and a net loss of two points 
on all his enormous holdings. 

Just before he left the office he said to Murphy, “We can 
hold out one day more.” Then to himself, “If worst comes 
to worst, Clare can marry Cornie Wildner! It really isn’t 
an unimaginable thing. Of course I did want a man for 
a son-in-law, but if the fates decide otherwise I suppose I 
will have to be content. Let me see, twelve dollars a share 
would let me out, with enough left to start in again.” 


CHAPTER IX 


With the opening of the market the next morning, a de¬ 
termined selling movement was started. Thousands of shares 
of Universal Radio were dumped on the market. Emerson 
stood in his office at the tape and saw the opening quotation— 
10—which quickly fell to 9. He called Glynn. “Why aren’t 
you buying ? ” 

“The banks have closed down on you—the brokers refuse 
to take any more on your account,” Glynn replied. 

“Good God! He’s got me! By noon I’ll be wiped out,” 
exclaimed Emerson as he banged up the receiver and began 
pacing the room like a madman. “He’s got me! He’s got 
me! ” he kept repeating. 

Finally Murphy could stand it no longer. He came into 
the room without being called. “Did you ring, sir? ” 

“Ring!—No—Yes—get Wildner on the phone!” 

Murphy took up the receiver and told the operator. In 
a moment she rang back. “Mr. Wildner is in conference— 
he cannot be disturbed,” was her reply. 

“Good God ! What can we do now ? He will not see me! ” 

“Perhaps if you went to his office? ” Murphy suggested. 

Emerson hesitated just a second, then said sharply: “Get 
my coat and hat! ” 

Urging the chauffeur to hurry, he rushed to the imposing 
headquarters of the international banking firm of Cornelius 
M. Wildner & Co., just off Wall Street, entered the office and 
asked to be shown to Mr. Wildner at once. His wish was 
complied with, and he was ushered into the presence of the 
head of the firm. 

“I’ll accept your offer of 12! ” Emerson announced 
brusquely. His leonine look spelled defiance, but his very 
presence in this office belied his appearance. 


86 


CLASHING WORLDS 


87 


“I withdrew that offer, 12 is out of the question now. I 
believe Universal is 8 at present. ,, 

“I will not take less than 12.” 

“Very well. Then there is no use of your remaining here 
further.” Wildner turned to the papers on his desk. 

Suddenly Emerson’s voice broke. “For God’s sake, Wild¬ 
ner—have a heart! ” 

Wildner smiled in his cold insinuating way. “Heart? My 
dear sir, this is an affair of hearts, or I wouldn’t offer you 
anything. I can wipe you out of Universal Radio as clean 
as the end of my desk.” He swept his hand suggestively 
over its smooth surface, as he spoke. 

Emerson replied hesitatingly: “It’s pretty tough to see 
one’s life work hang in the balance.” His voice had sunk 
almost to a whisper, as though speaking more to himself than 
to the other man. 

“A speculator like you ought to be prepared for such 
emergencies as this,” Wildner answered coldly. 

“I’ve always played sure things, Wildner. I’ve never 
bucked anyone like you before.” 

“Well, I will outline my last and only proposal to you.” 

“You mean your ultimatum?” 

“Still choosing words, I see. Let me make myself clear. 
We will buy your eleven million shares for nine dollars a 
share; you will remain as president of Universal Radio at 
a salary of two hundred thousand a year. Cornie will be 
chairman of the board. We will not object if you buy Uni¬ 
versal Radio stock, but none more than ten per cent. You 
must understand that you lose control of Universal for good. 
Of course you will be free to leave whenever you wish. 
And,” he pronounced these words with especial emphasis, 
“you announce to-morrow morning the engagement of your 
daughter Clare to my son Cornie—before this deal is consum¬ 
mated. What do you say ? ” 

“What can I say—your terms are quite liberal! ” was the 


88 


SOUL TOYS 


sarcastic reply; “You seem to know the extent of my hold¬ 
ings. I am frank to tell you that nine dollars a share will not 
pay the loans I have on the stock I am holding.” 

“I know that, but I shall, nevertheless, expect you to de¬ 
liver the eleven million shares free and clear,” said Wildner 
remorselessly. 

“That means—I will have to sell practically everything I 
have.” 

“You will still have your salary—and your genius.” 

“Genius—hell! Money is the last word in genius! You 
have that.” 

“Well, it is settled, then?” 

Emerson nodded. “You are a generous foe,” he said more 
affably. Then he put out his hand. Wildner took it, with 
the words, “And you are an opponent worthy any man’s met¬ 
tle! We’ll be friends?” 

The president of Universal Radio nodded. “Universal is 
my life’s work. I will not desert it—and you will watch 
after my daughter ? ” 

“I understand your feelings at this time,” said Wildner, 
after a brief pause: “You ought to go home and rest.” 

Emerson pulled himself together. “Somehow I feel as 
though I want to be with you, as if I need you to go through 
with this,” he said; “I wish you would run down to ‘World’s 
End’ with me for the night. Perhaps Cornie might come— 
and I might say a word to Clare.” 

“A great idea. I’ll meet you at three-thirty, and I’ll send 
word down the line that an armistice has been signed between 
us. Things will stand as they are until our personal matter 
is arranged.” 

Again the two business giants shook hands, and Emerson 
left. Wildner sat for some time contemplating the figures 
on a sheet of paper he had slipped from under his blotter. 
“Napoleon met his Waterloo. My battle plans did not mis¬ 
carry. Universal Radio will be a Wildner institution from 


CLASHING WORLDS 


89 


now on, with Emerson’s genius at its disposal for a time at 
least.” He smiled as though his silent musings pleased him. 
“And Cornie shall marry a real girl instead of someone off 
the streets! ” 


CHAPTER X 


At the time specified Mr. Wildner and Cornie called for 
Emerson, and together they boarded the train for Buttermilk 
Bay. The battle of the past few days was ignored and all 
chatted pleasantly. 

Clare met them at the depot and was struck by her fath¬ 
er’s face. She knew he had been through some terrific strug¬ 
gle, but concealed her concern. Arriving at the house, Emer¬ 
son took charge of Wildner, showing him about the grounds, 
while Clare and Cornie went to find Mrs. Emerson. 

After dinner, Clare took Cornie to a nearby country club 
where they played bridge until midnight. Upon their return 
they found Mr. Emerson waiting on the porch. “Clare, I 
want to talk with you before you retire,” he announced 
abruptly. The unusual circumstance of her father waiting 
up for her, and the tone of his address, informed Clare that 
he had something of importance to communicate, and that 
she would soon have the reason for his worried appearance. 

Cornie bade them good-night and went to his room, while 
Clare seated herself and waited her father’s message. 

“Clare, my daughter,” he began, “I realize you are still 
very young; at twenty-four one is not supposed to be very 
mature, but you have as much sense now as you will ever 
have,” was his rather uncomplimentary conclusion. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said ironically. She knew this 
flippant start portended a more serious remainder. 

“I have been a successful man, Clare, a very hard-working 
man. I was one of the first to recognize the commercial fu¬ 
ture of the Radio, and I built up the Universal Company, 
bit by bit; but I have not been satisfied for some time. I 
was hampered by other financial interests having their fingers 


90 


CLASHING WORLDS 


91 


in my pie! I wanted to be free—free of old man Wildner 
and his crowd! ” 

Clare raised her eyebrows in surprise. She had not sus¬ 
pected that the Wildners were coming into the conversation. 

“I made up my mind to attempt a colossal coup. If it had 
been successful I would have secured full control and been 
in a position to clean up on the Market. But I—well—I 
failed.” 

Clare could not speak. She felt her father’s depression 
by more than his mere words. 

“I would not give in on your account, Clare,” he continued 
presently. 

“My account? ” the girl asked, startled. 

“Yes, I—I wanted you to marry someone who could be a 
real son to us; who could take over my business when I was 
ready to quit; but I have known for a long time that Wildner 
had his eye on you for one of his sons.” 

“One of his sons?” Clare emphasized the first word of 
her query. 

“Before he whipped me, he would have been satisfied with 
either. Now I know it’s Cornie or nothing.” 

“What am I,” demanded Clare tartly, “the pawn of your 
business deals ? ” 

“Can’t you see that I was fighting to free you, and I suc¬ 
ceeded only in enslaving you. I will be frank. I am cleaned 
out. If you marry Cornie I remain with the Universal as 
its president, at a good salary. If you do not—I am out, 
entirely out. Now remember, I can take care of us, I am 
not holding poverty out before you; but when it becomes 
known, as it must, that I was cleaned out and kicked out of 
the Universal, even if I start over, you will no longer be the 
catch of the season you are to-day; your matrimonial de¬ 
sirability will be greatly lessened. Therefore I urge you for 
your own good to accept Cornie, while the taking is good,” 
he ended with a wry smile. 


92 


SOUL TOYS 


“So I am to sell myself to the highest bidder.” 

“Cornie is crazy about you; the old man knows it. He 
also knows his son’s failing for beautiful women, and he is 
afraid he may marry some good-looking chorus girl.” 

“And I am to be sacrificed to your busines need, and save 
Cornie from the ladies of the chorus! ” was her bitter reply. 

“It is your own welfare I am seeking. Your future means 
more to me than anything else.” 

“I wonder,” Clare thought to herself, “if that’s true—if 
his own vanity doesn’t mean more?” But she said aloud, 
“And so we are to fool Cornie, to save ourselves ? ” 

“He loves you; that is plain to see! ” 

“And what if I don’t love him?” 

“There are many girls who would be happy to have your 
chance! ” 

“Perhaps I love someone else! ” 

“The brother? Well, he’s out of the question. I’ll admit 
I’d have preferred someone else than Cornie, but the other 
one is impossible! ” 

“Your decision is quite irrevocable, I suppose?” she said 
coldly. 

“Clare, be sensible! You hold your future in your own 
hands. Don’t think I am binding you, or demanding that you 
marry Cornie. • But I understand from old man Wildner that 
Cornie is to get the bulk of his money; so with the other, 
you’d get love in a cottage all right—but if you really want 
him, maybe the old man will be satisfied. Refuse both—and 
who knows what the future may bring! Your mother and 
I are deserving of some consideration.” 

“Mother ? She’s been shoving him at me ever since I was 
old enough to go on the marrying list. I can’t answer you 
to-night, I must have time to think it over.” 

“Love! Hell! ” her father muttered to himself. “She 
must be blind not to see the necessity of acting on my sug¬ 
gestion.” 


CLASHING WORLDS 


93 


In his room he recovered his composure as he decided, 
“No child of mine could be such a damn fool as to turn 
down so splendid a chance! She will do what I want, but is 
smart enough to make us all believe that she is master of the 
situation. What an awful thing it would be if she refused! 
Sacrifice! Bah! The girl doesn’t recognize a good thing 
when she sees it! ” was his disgusted thought. 

It was with a bewildered feeling that Clare stumbled to 
her room and threw herself on the bed. Sobs racked her. 
Somehow she had the sensation of being choked and robbed! 
Choked by the force of circumstances, robbed of her love, 
of her right to live her own life. She had allowed herself to 
revel in the delightful joy of being loved by both brothers; 
now she admitted that it was Jean only whom she loved, 
Jean the ethereal, the unworldly child—rather than Cornie, 
the earthly, sensuous man-of-the-world. She had arrived at 
the cross-roads, the parting of the ways. Should she choose 
the uncertain path with Jean, an uncharted route, endure 
perhaps hardships to which she was unaccustomed? Or 
should she decide on the opposite path with Cornie—an ap¬ 
parently safe road—the same that her mother and her friends 
had travelled—and enjoy the advantages of position, wealth 
and society which had become a part of her existence? These 
were the doubts and the questions that confronted her in the 
long quiet hours. 

She undressed finally and crept into bed. What the time 
was, she did not know or care. It had no meaning for her. 
Her whole future life, she held in the hollow of her hands! 
How should she mold its form? She wondered if the de¬ 
cision were hers to make, or if she were not a creature of 
chance, a bubble buffetted on the ocean of life! 

“Am I my own master? ” she asked half aloud. The little 
voice of her soul crying for freedom, the power to control 
her future in the path of true happiness, kept answering: 
“You are ! You are! Do not let the Bluebird escape you! ” 


94 


SOUL TOYS 


But the louder voice of heredity and custom, of physi¬ 
cal desire, would not be suppressed. It voiced its insistent 
demand for comfort, ease, and earthly pleasures, saying: 
“No! No! You must do what your parents expect of you! 
You will never be satisfied in a spiritual paradise with Jean. 
Your thirst for life cannot be so allayed. You must have 
travel, gay friends, Parisian frocks, jewels and parties. 
These are all within your grasp if you accept Cornie. You 
are not the ruler of your life! Destiny forces you to say 
‘Yes’ to Cornie.” 

“And what would come of my union with Jean?” she 
continued her brooding. “I would be isolated—and yet what 
bliss to be alone with Jean; no distractions to clog our spirits, 
to lessen the intensity of our love.” She dreamily conjured 
up a beautiful future, until the tempter renewed its pleading. 

“You overlook the devouring need for Cornie’s aid and 
protection, if you want to take your fling in the society 
game. And remember your duty to your parents! And you 
know you never could endure life with Jean, you would 
soon be dreadfully bored.” 

The gnawing cry for Jean, her soul desire, would not be 
quieted. It made her almost frantic, but it was not strong 
enough to break the fetters of mind and heart that were 
slowly drawing her to a decision favorable to Cornie. Her 
heart was in a torment, her soul in a ferment! She swayed 
back and forth, but at last the sleek philosophy of the mod¬ 
ern woman, that makes physical comfort paramount, gained 
ascendency. She surrendered! It was an unconditional sur¬ 
render; she swept herself on to the conclusion that she 
actually loved Cornie, but in reality it was only an infatuation 
for what he represented, the sensual life of the body rather 
than the ethereal existence of the soul. 

So infatuation is often mistaken for love, when there is as 
much difference between them as between the light of the 
candle and that of the sun; both of the former go under the 




CLASHING WORLDS 


95 


name of Love, and the latter of Light. The real Love-Light 
is as strong as the sun and burns its way into the soul, where 
it may be covered and suppressed and the candle permitted 
to give forth its weak glow, but sooner or later it must it¬ 
self be destroyed by the more intense rays which cannot for¬ 
ever be held in leash. 

The decision once made, she closed her eyes and con¬ 
templated what her new life would be. She visioned herself 
passing from one pleasure to another with Cornie her ever- 
faithful guide and lover, a society queen sought after and im¬ 
perial in power. She pictured herself arrayed in fashion’s 
latest creations, the envy of her friends and the center of 
every gayety. She had a feeling of complete satisfaction, 
but dozed off into troubled sleep. 

Awakening some hours later with a shudder, she walked 
to the window, and looked down in the early morning light. 
The gardens were ablaze with September bloom, the smooth 
lawn was a velvety green. There came over her a sense of 
the eternal fitness of things. The sane regular life of the 
materialist seemed so much more desirable than the bizarre 
career of the dreamer. So does wordliness cloud the intelli¬ 
gence and dwarf the soul. Slipping a charming negligee 
over her pajamas, she reclined on a chaise longe. A calm 
feeling of satisfaction surged over her, a thankfulness for her 
beauty, as she viewed her piquant features reflected in her 
mirror and saw the contour and color of her cheeks, like a 
perfect peach. 

She wondered how her mother would ask her for her de¬ 
cision. Mrs. Emerson was accustomed to having her own 
way, and when crossed developed instantaneously a violent 
temper. Clare could tell by a single glance, whether she had 
climbed out of the right or left side of her bed. Her early 
morning temperament was usually the result of a last moment 
interview with Mr. Emerson the night before. As that 
gentleman had a habit of appraising his own views as quite 


96 


SOUL TOYS 


the equal of those of his wife, these conferences were fre¬ 
quently stormy ones and often brought an unpleasant after- 
math. 

When her mother was in an uncertain mood, Clare tried 
to confine her part of their conversation to a simple “yes” 
or “no” as she divined which answer her mother expected. 

But when Clare came down to breakfast, the stately, gra¬ 
cious hostess, showing the garden to Mr. Wildner, Sr., had 
discreet and smiling eyes and in a buoyant voice called her 
to come to them. 

“My little girl,” she announced with a bland and studied 
smile. 

“Charming this morning,” the dignified gentleman greeted 
her. “And this is the young lady whose praises Cornie is 
constantly drumming into my ears! I do not wonder the 
boy is head over heels in love with you. If I were not so 
old, I might be your courtier, too,” he added smilingly. 

“ ‘Better an old man’s darling,’ you know,” was her 
jaunty reply. 

“No, youth for youth,” he answered. “Oh the joy of 
being young together! ” 

“And of growing old side by side,” interjected Mr. Emer¬ 
son, as he approached the group and gave his wife a good¬ 
morning kiss. 

“Where is Cornie? ” asked Mr. Wildner crisply. He could 
not tolerate tardiness either at meal-time or in business ap¬ 
pointments. 

His son came hurrying from the stables just at that mo¬ 
ment. 

“Where have you been so early? ” asked Mrs. Emerson. 

“Give an account of yourself,” his father added. 

“For a canter over this great country; and I feel as fit 
as a fiddle! ” 

“We should all do the breakfast justice, this fine morning,” 
declared the host as he led the way to the sunny room where 
it awaited them. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


97 


Later in the morning Clare and Cornie sat on the open 
terrace that surrounded the house. 

“If you are not too tired from your ride, would you care 
to have a brisk game of tennis ? ” 

“I am never too tired to do anything you may ask me. 
Sure. I’ll play,” Cornie said agreeably. 

He then told her, apropros of the topic she had intro¬ 
duced, about a great tennis match he had played the previous 
winter at Palm Beach, with a strikingly beautiful French 
girl. • 

Clare thought, “He never sees ordinary women, and some¬ 
how a beautiful woman seems to be part of his every ex¬ 
perience and pastime.” 

While they chatted, Mr. Wildner, Sr., and his host walked 
to the Bay. “Splendid view,” volunteered the former; “why 
is it called Buttermilk Bay ? ” 

“The old Puritans so named it,” replied Mr. Emerson, 
“because the almost constantly shifting and circulating of 
the sea makes its waters a lacteal white.” 

“It looks like buttermilk now,” chuckled his companion. 
“Is that Buzzard’s Bay below us?” 

“Yes, this heads the Bay. That little town over there,” 
he pointed to the east, “is Jeffersontown. It was there Jo¬ 
seph Jefferson made his home.” 

Watching the sail-boats gliding over the beautiful little 
harbor, Cornie said to Clare, “This is more to my liking 
that the mountains. They sort of scare me with their big¬ 
ness, their rawness. I feel out of my element. Here I am 
part of the developed country.” 

“A finished product,” she suggested, with a smile. 

“Smooth article, rather,” he laughed. 

Suddenly he grew serious, “Clare, do you realize how 
happy you would make my old man, if you would say the 
word now ? He keeps telling me to get married, and I know 
he heartily approves of you.” 


98 


SOUL TOYS 


“Playing safe, eh?” she queried. “Am I to marry him 
or your worthy self ? ” 

“You know how I love you, Clare. I can’t be coherent 
when I am asking you for the thousandth, or is it ten- 
thousandth time? to be my wife!” 

“Perseverance, nothing like it,” she told him. 

“He who waits, always hopes. But he who does not wait 
is through,” he added plaintively. 

“He who waits may be a good ‘waiter’—but is he a great 
lover? Still, I think that you have really waited long enough 
for your answer.” She hesitated and looked shyly at him, 
then down to her lap filled with flowers which she was turn¬ 
ing into garlands. 

Cornie looked steadily at her, trying to discern her 
answer. 

“What would there have been for you to remember if I 
had said ‘yes,’ the first time you asked me ? ” He gave a 
sigh of relief but let her finish. “Picture me doing just 
that, a sweet unresisting thing, smiling parents, nothing but 
fine weather in view and cash unlimited! Wouldn’t you have 
been dreadfully bored? And could you call it by any pre¬ 
tense—love ? ” 

His thought was that he was not particular how she ac¬ 
cepted him so long as she did so, but all he could manage 
was, “My darling! ” 

“If you were just like I am,” she continued without emo¬ 
tion—“I pride myself that I have higher ideals than you, 
beauty is not all to me—what a dull prospect I would have! 
Frankly, I can not conceive of discussing the desire of the 
soul with Jean for the rest of my days, but with you, life will 
be interesting, I am sure of that.” 

“Say ‘yes,’ my beauty, and the joys of the world will be 
at your feet. To call this lovely rose,” he said, as he put his 
arm around her, my own, I would give my very soul.” 

“If you own one, Cornie. I am not so sure that you do. 
‘Yes,’ is my answer.” 


CLASHING WORLDS 


99 


“Thank God,” he breathed softly. 

“I will try to be ever beautiful in your sight, and perhaps, 
through the uniting of your love of beauty and my soul de¬ 
sire, a new entity, part of each, shall rise from our union! ” 

His kiss of fire seemed to scorch and burn her lips! 

“Would you still love me if I grew old and ugly?” she 
questioned naively. 

“That you could never do. My wife must always be 
beautiful,” he answered unhesitatingly. “My love will be 
a fountain of Beauty to you,” explaining his confidence. 

“Let us descend to the present and call the folks. I want 
to watch mother’s face when we tell her,” Clare brought him 
to earth. 

But her mother’s features, schooled to cover her feelings 
when she desired, masked her intense satisfaction and she 
merely presented a smiling countenance, intended to impress 
the elder Wildner with the idea that it was he who should 
be grateful for her daughter’s acceptance of his son. 

Mr. Emerson could not conceal his joy and Wildner, Sr., 
plainly expressed his pleasure. 

“Even this early in the day, we must have some ‘Mums’ to 
drink to their happiness,” Mr. Emerson said as he rang for 
a servant. 

“Marrying into a family with wine in the cellar, is like 
being handed gold on a silver platter,” laughingly remarked 
Mr. Wildner. “I’ll wager they will include Bimini or the 
Bermudas in their wedding trip or a run over the pond 
'where the cup still flows.’ ” 

“I don’t need liquors any more, Father. Clare’s beauty is 
enough to intoxicate any man.” 

“You susceptible tank!” Clare jeered her fiance, as he 
swallowed a brimming goblet of bubbles while the other 
glasses were being filled. 

Mr. Wildner lifted his glass, “Here is to a long life and 
a happy one, my children,” he toasted them. 


100 


SOUL TOYS 


“All the joys of the world! ” contributed her father. 

In the dim recesses of her inner being a tiny voice whis¬ 
pered to Clare, “To the wedding of a lost soul and a worldly 
heart! ” but she refused to listen to the dim foreboding and 
gaily raised her own goblet: “To Beauty’s playmate! ” she 
declared. “And his Love Toy!” answered Cornie. She 
nodded as she thought, “How much more pleasant to be a 
Love Toy than a Soul Toy! ” 

The happy hours danced by as Cornie outlined to Clare his 
plans for their future life. No responsibilities, no worries, 
only pleasures unconfined! Joy and Fun would be the 
horses they would ride and Happiness the fox they would 
catch at the end of each day’s exciting hunt! No big 
palaces, with their many servants, for her! no big business, 
with its responsibilities, for him! Together they would 
roam over the world’s pleasure spots, resting where their 
whims led them. 

“The World shall be our home and all Society our com¬ 
panions. You shall be Empress in Paris and Queen in Lon¬ 
don, as well as Madam President in New York! California 
and Florida shall be yours to conquer.” He painted her fu¬ 
ture in glowing word pictures. And Clare, a little frightened 
by the glamour awaiting her, was overcome by the tenseness 
of his devotion. 


CHAPTER XI 


In the quiet of her room, away from Cornie’s impetuous 
love-making, doubts began to assail Clare and she wondered 
if he made love to every beautiful girl like this. 

Hers was not the satisfaction to ask the fiancee’s eternal 
questions, “Am I the first girl you have ever loved ? ” and 
“Are mine the first lips yours have met in a love-kiss ? ” 
because she knew his conquests were many. She even took 
a painful delight in picturing herself as the goal of his search, 
the end of his quest. “But what of the future? ” she would 
question herself, in spite of all. 

Late in the night of her engagement, she wrote the letter 
of her life. In every being’s experience there comes a time 
when to some affinity of soul, he must pour out his inner¬ 
most thoughts. He can never do it in person, but the pen 
must trace and the paper carry the words that could not be 
born of thought in any other manner. So, in utter abandon¬ 
ment to her soul desire, she wrote: 

“My darling Jean:— 

“Once to everyone comes a love so deep, so big, that it 
seems to stifle and yet to expand—to conquer and to free. 
Such is my love for you, Jean, an everlasting lily, pure and 
white as the new fallen snow, but destined, I fear, like the 
snow, to melt into water and saturate the earth with its 
loveliness. But no! we will baffle Fate and not permit our 
love to sink into the forgetfulness of the earth, but will 
freeze it into our souls—there to keep fresh their desires. 
Jean, I do not know how to find words to tell you, but this 
is a good-bye. 

“I am going to marry your brother. Destiny forces me, 


101 


102 


SOUL TOYS 


my senses compel me, my infinitesimal soul is not big 
enough—no, not brave enough—to face life with you, Jean. 

“For Cornie, I am a fit companion—for you I would be 
an anchor that would hold you to earth when your soul’s 
desire is to fly to the heavens. I will admit to you only, Jean, 
to you alone, I do not love him! I love no one but you! 
You see how I am putting myself to the rack—forcing my¬ 
self to confess to you. It is torture, Jean! But my soul 
compels me to go on—it will not let me stop! 

“Jean, darling; I want you to know that your love for 
me is my dearest treasure, the hours that we have been to¬ 
gether are the sweetest remembrances I have. If I were 
free, Jean sweetheart, I would fly to you and seek the se¬ 
curity of your arms. But I am fettered by my own, yes, 
fleshy desires. I want all the things that you hate and Cor¬ 
nie likes! Do not blame my parents. They have something 
to do with it, of course. One is not adamant to their wishes, 
but it is only my own insatiable, greedy self, seeking my real 
desire, that has prompted me to do this awful thing—marry 
a man I do not love! 

“I think I want you both. Is it not possible for you still 
to be, yes, my lover? Such a love as yours, Jean, it is not 
wrong for a wife to accept from another man. I want to 
feel you are a refuge to which I can always flee, that you 
are my life preserver to whom I can cling, if the waters of 
the life I am choosing overcome me and I sink. Then I 
may rise to your height—but only then. 

“It is a hard role I ask you to perform, to be my silent 
mate, the background of my life, my City of Refuge! Will 
you fail me? Or help me to realize my soul desire? 

“Your loving sweetheart, 

“Clare.” 

She did not read the letter over, but early the next morn¬ 
ing posted it herself. She felt shrived, cleansed, purified, 
just why she could not tell, but she had been true to herself 


CLASHING WORLDS 


103 


for once in her life and had given expression to her real 
feelings. True Romance knows not Common Sense and is 
unacquainted with Falsehood. 

Clare waited impatiently for Jean’s reply, and when it 
came did not read it until in the seclusion of her room and 
the quietness of the night. 

“My poor Spirit,” the letter began, “how I have suffered 
in these few hours that seem like a life-time, since your mes¬ 
sage came! It was like becoming suddenly blind in a gar¬ 
den filled with the beauty and wonder of Nature, bathed with 
sunlight and swept with cool breezes. The gorgeous scene is 
still there, but I see it not! It has been taken from me— 
the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the wind still I 
feel—but oh, what a loss! I am overcome, overwhelmed by 
what you tell me. 

“I do not blame you. I am unworthy of a love like yours. 
You say it is like a white lily—I am afraid Cornie may gild 
the lily. 

“My only regret is that in trying to learn the lesson of 
Life, I have forgotten to live. How I suffer to think of 
you— not in another’s arms, that means nothing—but to 
realize that another should look into your wonderful eyes 
and read there the depths of your soul! 

“I fear for my own soul. I told you there were moments 
when in the ecstasy of soul prayer, through the glow of your 
love, I felt that I was actually in Heaven. This second I feel 
that I am in Hell—a hell of lost souls! 

I will not give up! You ask me to be your background, 
your life line, to which you can cling when in need. Even 
that will I be! But promise to be true to you, I will not! 
For what you have done, I may do. Our love, I see now, is 
a greater, nobler thing than earthly affection. It rises above 
the necessity of physical nearness, of actual companionship. 
It recognizes not the limitations of space nor the impedi¬ 
ments of Man. 


104 


SOUL TOYS 


“You are and always will be one with me no matter whom 
the law may call your husband! My soul demands you as its 
toy, my Soul Toy! It will not give you up! 

“It happens my own brother is to be your husband. We 
will therefore close the door to our love, lock it tightly in our 
breasts until God shows the way. Enjoy your life, taste 
every pleasure you may desire! I, too, will do likewise, and 
then—then- 

“But no more. This is good-bye. You always can de¬ 
pend on me for help anywhere and anytime. I will be your 
sanctuary of safety, of peace. My poor soul, doomed to 
silence until called by you, will in your service express its 
desire. 

“May you and Cornie be happy, is really my wish. I do 
want you to be happy, Clare. You must be happy! I could 
not live if you were otherwise. That is why I compose my¬ 
self and say, ‘You want Clare to be happy. If you love her 
truly, why complain? She is satisfied.’ 

“Remember no matter what happens, ‘Soul’s Desire’ in 
the glorious Catskills is always waiting for you, and this 
poor mortal is subject to your orders to the end of his days. 
How shall I sign this? 

“Your obedient servant, 

“Jean.” 

Clare held the letter in her hand and stared unseeing from 
the window. “This is the end,” was her thought. She had 
half-hoped he would rebel, would demand that she be true 
to her love and faithful to him. This renunciation she had 
not expected. 

“Such unselfishness,” she muttered; and prepared for bed 
with rather a satisfied mind: “An earthly husband to fulfil 
my every wish,” she reflected, “and a spiritual lover waiting 
for me in case the first fails or I tire of the social round! It 
is like seeing the portals of the convent always open, and to 
have an opportunity first to taste all the joys of life.” 



CLASHING WORLDS 


105 


But when her head at last reached her pillow she could no 
longer control the torrent of tears waiting to gush forth, 
because Real Love knows not Expediency and protests the 
Shackles of the World. 

In response to telegrams hastily dispatched, Claret 
friends and Cornie’s satellites gathered for a house party on 
the week-end following their engagement. 

Clare met Jean’s personal congratulations with a calmness 
that surprised her, but felt the shudder that went through 
him when Cornie shouted, “How is my best man ? ” 

Meta Murray said to her brother Clay as they strolled in 
the garden, “You can’t tell me that she loves him and not 
Jean. Anyone who has eyes can see that. She is marrying 
him for his money! ” 

“Isn’t he Jean’s brother? Cornie will not get any more 
than Jean when their father dies. I think you are a little 
jealous, Sis, if I may say it.” 

“Jealous? No; but I do think that Cornie and I are better 
mated than he and Clare. She likes to enjoy every thrill 
that society can give, and pose as a saint! I think she con¬ 
siders herself a virtuous vamp! Me, jealous? I should say 
not—I am merely amused. Jean’s her kind—but she knows 
he will probably distribute his millions to teach the Chinese 
or the Africans how to release their souls. They say he 
gives away most of his allowance now. I never knew Cornie 
to hand out anything—unless it was to a beautiful woman.” 

“Don’t be a cat, Sis,” her brother advised. “Clare is your 
best friend, remember that.” 

“If I can’t talk to my own brother for Heaven’s sake to 
whom can I ? ” she inquired, losing her patience with him. 

“I believe in loyalty to my friends,” he affirmed. 

“Who said I wasn’t loyal? I love Clare and you know it, 
but I can’t help feeling that she will regret marrying Cornie,” 
she declared positively. 

“Having a family conference? ” Jean asked as he came up 
to them. 


106 


SOUL TOYS 


“We thought it was going to be you instead of your 
brother,” Meta faltered. “How will you ever get along with¬ 
out Clare—you were such close friends. Why didn’t you 
grab her first ? ” she chided him sharply. 

“One may enjoy the wonder of the mountains and have 
no desire to possess their majesty,” he observed quietly, and 
walked away. 

“Take that, dear Sister! ” cried Clay in amusement. 

“What did he mean by such a remark ? ” She affected her 
ignorance of his implication. 

“I think he wanted to convey the idea that Clare was his 
without marrying her, who knows? ” he flashed. 

“Who knows ? ” she repeated. 

“I never could understand Jean. For my part I am glad 
Clare isn’t marrying him. I would hate to think of you be¬ 
ing tied to such an eccentric fool,” was Clay’s final word. 

At the dinner table Mr. Emerson suggested that they 
could get up two foresomes and enjoy the nearby golf course. 
And immediately Clare announced : “Horto and Clay can play 
Cornie and me, and Meta and Eddie against Tillie and Jean.” 

“You know I can’t play,” complained Jean. 

“Oh, I forgot,” Clare replied. “You will have to play, 
Dad. Too bad Jim isn’t here.” 

“Is there anything you can do? ” Mrs. Emerson petuantly 
asked Jean. “No bridge—no golf—how can you get along? 
I wanted your father to go with me this afternoon,” she 
said glancing toward her daughter. 

“Well, we can play a threesome just as well, Mrs. Emer¬ 
son,” suggested Eddie Philbrick. 

“Sh! I would rather play golf than go calling on new 
neighbors,” whispered Mr. Emerson. 

“Perhaps they are home-brew makers, you never can tell,” 
jokingly remarked Clay. 

“I suppose I better not let such a chance pass by, because 
my stock will go down some with a wedding coming on, and 
a new source must be found,” he confessed. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


107 


“What will you do, Jean? ” Clare inquired. 

“I found an interesting book on your library table. I’ll 
go down by the shore and read. Don’t fret about me.” 

“Everybody get set! We must leave in half an hour if 
we are going to play eighteen holes,” commanded Eddie. 
“How is the course, Mr. Emerson? I have never played 
here.” 

“It is a beauty, we are very proud of it. All rolling coun¬ 
try and several picturesque groves, with a little stream for 
water hazards. I know you will enjoy it.” 

“What do you make it in ? ” Eddie asked with interest. 

“Please do not embarrass me,” replied Emerson. “I am 
only in the hundred class.” 

“What is par ? ” 

“Seventy. Are you going to make it in that?” 

“No chance, I am only a dub.” 

The golfers started for the links, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson 
for their call, and Jean to his book. He thought of his 
father and was sorry he had not met him, as he had left sev¬ 
eral days before his younger son’s arrival. 

In the evening rugs were thrown back and the party danced 
for several hours, to a victrola accompaniment. 

Jean spent most of the time on the terrace, as he said he 
couldn’t do the new dances. 

Clare overheard Meta say to him: “What a treat it would 
be to teach you to be a regular fellow! ” 

“And what is a regular fellow ? ” he questioned amusedly. 

“A man like Cornie! ” she blurted without thinking. 

He looked up in surprise, “Is he your ideal ? ” 

She ignored the question. “Every man ought to consider 
it his duty to entertain his friends and join in their amuse¬ 
ments.” 

“Is it necessary to drink, gamble, and run around with 
questionable women, to make one a regular fellow?” he 
queried frankly. 


108 


SOUL TOYS 


“A regular fellow doesn’t discuss those things with his 
lady friends.” She voiced disapproval of his question. She 
never would have objected with anyone else, but coming from 
Jean it seemed immoral. 

“Beg your pardon, I had an idea the young ladies of to¬ 
day, especially my brother’s lady friends,” he grew rather 
sarcastic, “were quite free and frank in their discussion of 
sex.” 

“Sex, yes; but questionable women, that’s different.” 

“A difference without a distinction,” he concluded as Ed¬ 
die came to claim her for the next dance. 

“I can’t understand him,” Jean heard her say as she went 
into the house. 

When he sat out a dance with Tillie Freer, he felt a closer 
kinship to her. “Let’s take a walk to the shore, I would 
much rather do that than to dance,” she cooed. 

“Come along,” said Jean as he took her arm. “Maybe we 
can forget the crowd and the fashionable pastimes, at Na¬ 
ture’s side.” 

“Aint Nature grand?” Tillie laughingly remarked. “But 
seriously, I really do just adore Nature! It awes me. I 
feel speechless when I go through a beautiful garden or look 
at big mountains,” the girl said, attempting to show herself 
in tune with Jean and with her surroundings. 

Tillie was the type that always tries to understand the 
mood of her male companion and play up to his views. She 
had none of her own, but adopted those of her associate of 
the moment. 

“Nature speaks a clear language to those who appreciate 
her, but as you say, she requires only a silent response; so 
beware you do not annoy her,” Jean warned. 

“I love Philosophy,” announced Tillie, as they sat down 
on a rustic bench close to the water. 

“Do you read much along that line ? ” the man asked. 

“No, I have so little time for reading, but I enjoy discus- 
sing it. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


109 


“You must,” he observed dryly; “what is your idea of the 
Freudian theory of Psycho-Analysis?” 

“Oh tell me yours! ” she gushed. “You must have such 
certain views,” was the way she managed to dodge. 

“Not now, let us talk of other things,” he resumed. “Dis¬ 
cuss Freud with a child like this! Better talk to one’s self. 
But many a man wants just that type,” he thought, “one who 
will listen to an oration on his life and his views, and then 
strenuously agree with him in everything he has said, al¬ 
though she may be bored to death.” 

The week-end passed with only one opportunity for Jean 
to meet Clare alone. He saw her early one morning, from 
his window, gathering flowers, and hurried out to her. 

“Good morning, Miss Rosebud! ” he greeted as he met her. 

“Good morning, Mr. Violet! ” she retorted; please do not 
shrink from me as you’ve done ever since you have been 
here.” 

“Clare, you know I wanted to be careful for your sake, 
and Cornie’s too.” 

“You are going to be his best man—how funny—I wonder 
who is the best man? ” 

“And Meta your Maid of Honor?” 

“Yes. I think she is just a wee bit jealous. She liked 
Cornie pretty well.” 

“It makes you feel better to be envied, doesn’t it? ” 

“Every woman likes to feel she has beaten someone in the 
game of Love,” she explained. 

“The loser is sometimes the winner,” he retorted. 

Both ignored their letters and tried to avoid discussing 
their situation; but as they walked back to the house Clare 
suddenly said, “I must ask a favor of you, Jean. I want you 
to give me back my letter! I do not feel safe without it, 
almost as if it were part of me. I can only breathe easily, 
be whole again, when I have it in my possession.” 

Jean put his hand in his inside pocket. “I could not leave 


110 


SOUL TOYS 


it, had to keep it as close to my heart as possible. I said I 
could not refuse you anything you asked. Here/’ he handed 
the letter to her, “is not only part of you, but of me, too,” he 
added sadly. 

She took it and kissed it. “Because it has been near your 
heart,” she explained as she folded it up and put it inside 
her waist. 

“Better be careful you do not lose it. You know the one 
you wish least of all to find it, is always sure to be the very 
one who does,” was his warning. 

“Don’t worry, I am not so foolish as to take any chances 
with it. I will destroy it as soon as I get to my room.” 

“Why not do so now and be through with it,” he advised 
nervously; “and you better tear up my reply too—or better 
still—burn them both.” 

“I must read them over once more before I consign them 
to the flames,” she told him. 

“It really isn’t wise,” he could not resist saying. 

“I must go in now. Thank you so much, I feel quite re¬ 
lieved.” 

“You were afraid to trust me with it,” he reproached her. 

“No, indeed, I was not,” she hastened to say. “Only as I 
said, I felt as if I had lost something which I had to get 
back.” 

“Maybe you have lost something which you can never 
get back—my full confidence and faith in you,” he silently 
brooded, as they stood for a moment looking into each other’s 
eyes. 

“I need your support to go through with this, you will 
not forget your promise to help me?” she asked softly. 

“I said I wouldn’t fail you ” 

She took his hand and held it while she whispered, “I will 
always be yours; ” then she let it fall and ran quickly into 
the house. 

The remainder of the day passed, as had all the days of 



CLASHING WORLDS 


111 


the house-party, in a whirl of doings, ending with a marsh¬ 
mallow roast on the beach. 

As if reserving her action to the very last conscious 
thought before she would lose herself in slumber, Clare took 
her letter to Jean and his reply to bed with her, and sitting 
up in the light of a rose-shaded lamp, re-read her own con¬ 
fession and Jean’s renunciation. It was her full intention to 
destroy them that very night, and to carry out her purpose 
she had placed on the little table beside her bed a covered 
silver powder box and some matches, intending to burn the 
precious words in it. 

But when she had completed her perusal of them and lay 
back on her pillow, she closed her eyes and let her thoughts 
picture the joys that would have been hers and Jean’s in his 
mountain dwelling, had she been true to her real love. 
Finally she decided she must prepare for sleep; and sitting 
up, folded the letters into a very small compact mass and put 
them in the silver dish. Then she took up a match to light 
the fire—sacrificial to the god of Love. An unseen hand 
seemed to restrain her. “No, I can’t do it—not to-night, at 
any rate,” she thought. “It is like cutting off a finger—it is 
as if I were destroying my love for Jean.” 

She lay back again and considered the matter; “What harm 
could come if I would lock both of the letters in the lower 
drawer of my jewel case? I never use that drawer, I couldn’t 
lose them out of it, and no one would ever find them there.” 
She pleaded the case silently with herself. 

Suddenly determining what she would do, she arose, went 
to her dressing table and put the letters in the case; then 
returned to bed feeling very virtuous. She had locked them 
away as she had the love they expressed, one enclosed in the 
case, the other in her heart! 

The eventful days preceding a fashionable wedding soon 
engulfed Clare and Cornie. The latter advocated just run¬ 
ning off by themselves and getting married “quietly without 


112 


SOUL TOYS 


any fuss.” The former stubbornly insisted on her bride’s 
right to a regular wedding with all the trimmings, and as 
usual with brides, had her way in the matter, being heavily 
supported by her mother. 

At last the weeks slipped by and the fateful day arrived. 
Clare had become a convert to the Catholic religion because 
Cornie’s father wished her to do so, and her own views, 
as she said, “were very chaotic.” 

She had been a Methodist because her parents were, and 
she would be a Catholic because her husband was one. So 
most women follow the beaten path and have their religion 
provided for them by their parents or husbands along with 
the material things of life. 

The wedding was to take place in the Bishop’s Chapel in 
the early morning. The Emersons had opened their city 
house and all was in readiness for the event, which the news¬ 
paper heralded as a “union of two wealthy and prominent 
society people.” 


CHAPTER XII 


“A wedding always makes me cry/’ declared Meta as she 
touched a dainty kerchief to her eyes. 

“Because it is not your own?” insolently inquired Tillie 
Freer. 

“I think I have had as many offers as you have! ” was the 
heated reply, as Meta fussed to adjust her hat at the proper 
angle. They were at Clare’s home—the wedding party was 
preparing to leave for the Bishop’s Chapel. 

“What is the bride wearing that is old ? ” Tillie asked, 
changing the subject, as she carefully applied a rouge stick 
to her lips. 

“Some rare lace—it’s softened and mellowed—like an old 
love,” responded Meta sentimentally. 

“I suppose the ‘something new’ is the wonderful diamond 
bar-pin Cornie gave her, bright and sparkling like a new 
love,” Tillie continued the comparison. 

There are homes richly furnished which give one solely 
the impression of wealth; others of good taste and culture as 
well. The Emerson residence on upper Riverside Drive was 
in the latter class. The large entrance hall had a wide cen¬ 
tral stairway leading to a balcony which extended on three 
sides, giving somewhat the appearance of the cabin of a large 
steamer. On the walls hung four ancient tapestries depicting 
heroic tableaux. The colors were faded into soft warm 
grays and browns, and the figures were shadowy and indis¬ 
tinct. They gave a charm and air of age to the room, 
accentuated by two tall candle-sticks of wrought iron, and 
an antique chest and chairs. Around the hall for the occa¬ 
sion were stationed high baskets filled with chrysanthemums, 
Thanksgiving flowers. From each basket hung wide bands 
of delicately shaded ribbon. 


113 


114 


SOUL TOYS 


The large living room, with its heavy pieces of furniture of 
a past generation, was also brightened by beautiful flowers 
which filled every nook and corner. 

The library and music room, furnished with rare pieces, 
were likewise bowers of beauty; the dining-room, where the 
table stood already set for the wedding breakfast, was a mass 
of color. 

The bridal party at last arrived at the chapel. It seemed 
to Clare that Cornie walked as if on air, his step was so 
elastic; and that Jean, as best man, walked as if held to the 
earth by clinging mud, so heavy was his step. She did not 
know how she walked. She was conscious of people watch¬ 
ing her, of her father’s appearance, and confident of 
her own beauty. Meta, following, looked prettier than ever 
before. 

The impressive ceremony through, the bride and groom 
led the way to the waiting automobiles. There was the 
never-to-be-forgotten moment when they, who were two, 
have just been made one—she on his arm—the world before 
them! What shall they make of it ? 

It was a radiant bride and a glowing groom who sat at 
the head of the breakfast table and later met their friends at 
the afternoon reception and at the dinner dance in the eve¬ 
ning. 

Jean accompanied them to the hotel where they were to 
stay until the next morning, when they were to embark for 
Cherbourg, for a year abroad. It was after eleven when he 
bade them good-bye; then as they went to their room Clare 
said to Cornie, “I am going to get everything ready so that 
we will not have to bother in the morning. The time goes 
by so quickly.” 

She took up a Boston bag and started to put some things 
in it. 

“Do you intend to carry that yourself?” Cornie asked. 
“Why not put everything in the larger cases? I hate hand 
luggage, it’s always a nuisance.” 


CLASHING WORLDS 


115 


“I never let my jewel case out of my hands, and it is too 
big for my hand bag, so I have to take this little Boston,” she 
replied. 

“Very well.” He did not press the matter. “I wonder if 
you could find room in your precious case for some of my 
jewelry? I have several pretty valuable stick-pins, this dia¬ 
mond fob, and some cuff-links and studs.” 

“Of course, give them here.” 

Cornie handed them to his wife, and she placed them in 
the top drawer of the case with her own jewelry. 

“I always keep it locked,” she observed, as she turned the 
key. She had forgotten for the moment the letters that 
rested in the lower drawer. 

Cornie took up the case, “What an unusual affair! Teak- 
wood, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Do you see the wonderful carving? Father bought 
it in Paris. The same key locks both the case itself and the 
two inside drawers.” 

Cornie noticed that Clare bit her lip in vexation as soon as 
she had said this; suddenly she had remembered the letters 
in the lower drawer and regretted her uncalled for statement. 
Watching her hand shake as she put the box in the bag, he 
wondered why she should have been so upset by the ap¬ 
parently harmless comment. 

The next morning, supported by Cornie’s arm, Clare 
climbed up the gang plank into what looked like a hole in 
the wall of a vertical mountain. Far above, a row of indis¬ 
tinguishable faces peered down on their progress. The 
steamer, impassive and impressive, received them. 

When the puffing little tugs had turned the leviathan 
around out in the river, Clare knew she was started on a new 
life. Arm in arm the two stood viewing the sensate Rocky 
Mountains formed by New York’s sky line, and waved 
good-bye to the Divine Goddess with her hand pointed up¬ 
ward. The ship gathered speed, and it was not long before 


116 


SOUL TOYS 


all the historic landmarks were passed. Long Island was 
soon sinking to the north and Sandy Hook fading to the 
south. 

The pilot was finally dropped on a glassy sea, and Clare 
felt the last touch with her old life was gone. Ambrose and 
Nantucket lights were passed. America was out of sight! 
The Olympic gathered her skirts and was off, clean-limbed as 
Atlanta, for the Old World. 

Clare had deserted the New Continent of Soul Life for the 
Old World of Passion! 

* * * * * 

After leaving the newlyweds, Jean went to his room at the 
Athletic Club and changed to street clothes. He soon came 
out again as he felt he would choke if he remained inside. 
The world seemed to have slid from under him. His hopes 
and ambitions were dead. No jealousy or envy filled him, but 
a sense of loss that was irreparable—a sinking sensation. 
He walked and walked, he hardly knew where; repeating to 
himself, “She is gone—I have lost her! ” 

Turning into Broadway from Fortieth Street, he was ac¬ 
costed by a young woman, “You look lonely, Friend. Don’t 
want company, do you ? ” she asked brazenly. 

Jean stopped and looked at her. While far from beautiful, 
she did appear attractive, trim and neat. He hesitated for 
an instant. He had always disdainfully regarded this kind 
of chance encounter and brushed by such a seeker. 

To-night he did not care. He was sick, heart and soul. 
His fine and high feelings were buried deep within his be¬ 
ing, the brute instinct was uppermost. “What does anything 
matter? Why should I not amuse myself with this girl? 
Anything, to forget! To stifle this terrible, lonely feeling,” 
he brooded. 

“Yes, I do want company, little one. Where shall we go ? ” 
he accepted her advance rather stupidly. 

“I would like something to eat—and if you have anything 
on your hip ? ” she inquired anxiously. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


117 


“Not a thing,” he answered. “But how is this place, looks 
pretty good.” He indicated a brightly lighted cafe a few 
doors from Broadway. It was one of the many restaurants 
that flourish in the basements of the remodeled houses that 
line the late Thirties and early Forties, with windows filled 
with tempting pastries. 

“I didn’t have any supper,” she ventured, after they were 
seated at a table. 

“Better take the table d’hote, you will get enough to last 
you until to-morrow night,” as he handed her the menu with 
its long list of selections. 

As she studied the card intently, Jean took the oppor¬ 
tunity to look her over carefully. 

She was really pretty, or rather had been, for she looked 
wan and peaked in the bright light of the interior. Her short, 
ashen-blond hair hung in a neat, prim little row of curls all 
around her head. She wore a tiny tip-tilted bonnet with roses 
filling in the back, and narrow streamers which fell coquet- 
tishly over her left ear. The hat distinctly expressed her 
type. It fitted her small features, her nose, inclined to be 
puggish, and her very red lips. 

“She is not vulgar,” was his conclusion. He could not 
have tolerated her if she had been. 

After giving her order, the girl looked up, studying him 
as if to read his thoughts. 

“You lost something,” she pronounced, as her solution of 
his trouble. 

“I have,” was all he granted her. 

“Money ? ” 

“No,” his denial was firm. 

“Girl?” cryptically. 

“H’m, h’m ! ” he admitted. 

“Wife run away?” Her persistence amused him. 

“No; never married,” he replied with a smile. 

She hesitated, to consider further possibilities. 


118 


SOUL TOYS 


Her meal arrived. “Aren’t you going to eat anything ? ” 
She seemed concerned. 

“Pastry and coffee,” he said carelessly to the waiter. 
Words would not come to him. He felt dumb and helpless. 

“Good soup,” his companion asserted, as it fast disap¬ 
peared. 

Presently she renewed her investigation. “Your girl ran 
away, or married someone else ? ” 

“Married my brother,” he told her sadly. 

“The hell you say! ” She showed her astonishment. 
“That’s a new one! Your brother, eh?” She hoped he 
would explain—which he did not. 

When finally she had finished they left the cafe. She took 
his arm. “We will go to my room. It is only in the next 
block—around the corner—two flights up—you won’t mind, 
will you ? ” she pleaded. 

He hesitated just long enough for her to give his arm an 
almost imperceptible pull, but sufficient to turn the balance in 
her favor. He let her lead him to her room. 

It was barely furnished. He noticed in the dim light that 
flickered from the single gas jet, a bed, a dresser, one chair, 
a screen. That was all. 

She motioned him to the chair and took off her coat and 
hat. 

He stared at her as if hypnotized. “What a sad little 
girl! ” he thought. 

She went behind the screen and came out in a bright red 
kimona adorned with big yellow flowers. It struck him like 
a sharp stone. It was the first vulgar, common note, and 
acted on him like a discord. 

He stood up as she came toward him, reached for his hat, 
and started for the door. 

“Wait! ” she commanded. “You can’t fool me like this! ” 

He turned back, with a greater disgust than before! “Par¬ 
don me, I forgot-” He opened his wallet, picked out a 



CLASHING WORLDS 


119 


ten-dollar bill and contemptuously threw it on the dresser 
and again stepped toward the door. 

“I wanted—to help you—forget her,” she chose her words 
carefuly, slowly. 

Her fervent avowal made no impression on his dulled 
senses, but as he placed his hand on the knob of the door a 
baby’s cry came from behind the screen! “Ma-ma!” He 
stopped. The infant’s cry seemed to waken him to a reali¬ 
zation of where he was, to startle him. 

The girl hurried to the child. He turned back and stood 
waiting. She returned immediately with a baby about two 
years old in her arms. 

“You don’t keep him here when—when you bring men? ” 
he asked in horror. 

“Where else should I keep him? He doesn’t understand, 
you know.” 

“But when he—grows older ? ” he stammered. 

“It’s awful to think about, isn’t it? But what can I do? ” 
she asked piteously, beginning to weep, quietly, without os¬ 
tentation. She turned her head away from him to hide her 
shame. 

“But why do this? There must be some other way,” he 
insisted. 

“I have tried—you don’t think I want to do this? I don’t 
think anyone wants to, but it’s force of circumstances,” she 
explained. 

Clare’s words, “It is my Destiny that forces me,” came 
back to him ever so vividly. 

As the girl stood in the dim light, with the child in her 
arms, her face took on a tenderness and a calmness that 
soothed even Jean’s throbbing heart, and pity for them 
drove out the disgust of a moment before. But he was afraid 
she would try to tell him her troubles! 

“Sometime you can tell me your story—not now—not 
here,” he muttered unevenly. “Would you want to escape 
from it all? ” 


120 


SOUL TOYS 


“Suicide, or dope? Which is the way you suggest?” she 
mocked. 

“I am in earnest, come with me.” 

She looked at the child. 

“Bring him too. I have a place in the mountains. No one 
but my old housekeeper and myself.” 

“That is where you take your women?” she asked dis¬ 
piritedly. 

He shuddered. She couldn’t grasp his clean thought. “My 
lady guests have always been properly chaperoned. You and 
your child will be safe. How he will thrive in the fresh 
mountain air! ” he enthused. 

She caught a little of his spirit. “And how about poor 
little me?” she questioned. 

He took her by the arm. “Poor little mother, we will 
bring the roses back to your cheeks—and I need you now, 
too.” 

“My poor boy,” she kissed the babe softly. 

It was not the kiss of a wanton, but of a mother. She 
held the child toward Jean. An electric current seemed to 
flow between the three, as the baby opened his big black eyes 
and smiled at him. 

“Get your things. I will wait,” he ordered as he took 
the child from her. 

She hustled about, taking things out of the drawers, pull¬ 
ing a worn suitcase from beneath the bed, filling and placing 
it near the door. Then she took a newspaper and wrapped 
some things in it, putting the bundle on the bed; walked to 
the dresser, took a sheet of paper and pencil from the upper 
drawer and went behind the screen. He was staring at the 
child. In a few moments she crossed again, fully dressed, 
to the dresser—hesitated—then took the bill he had thrown 
there and said, “I will be back in a minute. I must pay the 
landlady.” As she left the room she picked up the suitcase 
unnoticed by Jean. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


121 


He played with the child for a time, and then impatiently 
looked at his watch. Half an hour had passed. He did not 
know what name to call. He paced the floor for another 
half-hour. The child had fallen asleep. Finally, he called 
the landlady. 

A voice came up from below: “What d’you want? ” 

“Where is the girl who rooms up here ? ” 

“How the hell should I know? ” she bellowed. “She came 
here awhile ago and paid me two dollars she owed me. Her 
week was up to-day, and she said she was leaving. Had her 
suitcase, too. What’d she do, dump you there ? ” 

“Yes—no—she didn’t say when she would be back?” 

“Told me she wouldn’t be back—what did she do with 
the kid ? ” 

“He is here—I’ll look after him.” 

“All right, be sure you put the light out when you go! ” 
she yelled as she slammed a door. 

He called again. 

“What do you want now ? ” she complained loudly. 

“Do you know who she was, anything about her ? ” 

“What d’you think I am, a census taker? Her name was 
Louise, that’s all I know. The third floor roomers never 
stay long, cornin’ and goin’ all the time. She has been there 
only three weeks.” 

“Thank you,” Jean replied. He looked at his watch. “It 
is probably useless to wait longer—but what ought I to do ? ” 
he pondered. 

Walking over to the bed he looked down at the sleeping 
child, “You poor helpless mite,” he murmured sympatheti¬ 
cally. 

For the first time he saw the bundle beside the boy, and 
picking it up, found it to contain his clothing. A note 
dropped to the floor. 

He reached for it and going over to the dim light read : 

“His father's name is Cornie Wildner” He stopped as if 
struck by an unexpected blow. 


122 


SOUL TOYS 


“My brother—his father! My God, what a coincidence! 
She didn’t know my name. It is a miracle.” He glanced 
toward the child. The eyes and features seemed to be Cor- 
nie’s, like the old tintype, when they were children together, 
that they had looked at so often, it was engraved in his 
memory. 

Some shocks—joy, grief, or surprise—deaden the senses 
and prevent clear thinking; others, from the same causes, 
sharpen the intellect and make the brain work more quickly 
and with keener perception. It was the latter effect that 
Jean felt, as he continued to read the note: 

“His father’s name is Cornie Wildner. He wouldn’t 
marry me, and I left him before our child was born. He 
never knew whether it lived or died. 

“I don’t think he’d care. I wouldn’t take his money. 
Don’t take it for my child. I was his plaything, that was 
all—but I loved him, and I don’t complain. Take care of 
little Cornie. You will never see me again. It is the only 
way. I would pull him down and you too. Now, no one 
need ever know his beginning. God bless him, and you too. 

“Louise.” 

“A Love Toy of Cornie’s thrown aside when broken and 
its beauty lost or tired of. And what of the Little Soul Toy 
thrown into the world—the spark that had blown from the 

fire of their love-” Jean pondered; “Was the child to be 

his Soul Toy? ” 

“Underworld life! ” he thought as he looked down at the 
child. “But that mother has an upper-world soul. She made 
the supreme sacrifice—her wonder man-child—for his sake. 
Not even her last name did she leave—sunk without trace. 
She is gone forever. And Cornie on his wedding trip! 

“Do I not owe it to the child to protect it, and to Clare, to 
keep her from the knowledge of Cornie’s unfaithfulness? 

Yes, and to my father, too? I must take care of Cornie’s 



CLASHING WORLDS 


123 


child. And most of all, I owe it to the little mother, who 
put her whole faith in me.” 

She had read in his eyes the beauty of his soul and had 
trusted him with her all. He took the child in his arms, 
picked up the bundle, turned off the light, and went out into 
the night. 

“Where shall I go ? ” he considered. At his club they 
would josh him—an unmarried man with a child! His 
father would not believe his story, and he could hear him say: 
“Do you expect me to believe this street-walker? Undoubt¬ 
edly you told her your name and Cornie’s.” 

So he went to a hotel near by and registered, “Jean Wild- 
ner and child.” He thought of Cornie signing, “Mr. and 
Mrs. Cornelius M. Wildner, Jr.,” on European registers. 

He put the child to bed, but sat in an easy chair himself. 
He felt he could think better, and was not the least bit tired. 
His attention was attracted to a clock on the wall, with its 
long pendulum swinging from side to side. It seemed to re¬ 
peat over and over, “Something old—something new; some¬ 
thing lost—something gained.” “Yes,” he contemplated its 
meaning, “my old hopes and ambitions are gone, but here 
is a new incentive to live; through this little child, my soul’s 
desire may be regenerated and rise like a Phoenix from the 
flames. Something lost—my Clare; something gained— 
Cornie’s child! Fate surely plays strange jokes! ” 

Morning came at last, and after breakfasting, Jean left 
for “Soul’s Desire.” The boy clung to him with his little 
hands, but it seemed to Jean as if he were the one who was 
actually being led back to the peace of his mountains. 


CHAPTER XIII 


As Jean opened the door to “Soul’s Desire,” Mary came 
to meet him. She stopped in open-eyed amazement as she 
saw the little child. 

“Wherever did you find him? ” she asked. 

“I am going to adopt him.” He gave the decision he had 
suddenly reached. “You will have to look after him, Mary, 
as you did me.” 

“That I will, Mr. Jean; but you are so young—only 
twenty-five—and no wife—and a child—Oh, my! What 
people do these days! Nothing surprises me any more!” 
she wailed. 

“We will love him, Mary, and he is going to love us. 
Sonny, aren’t you ? ” He patted the curly head. 

The child looked up and smiled at them. 

“What’s his name ? ” Mary asked. 

“Cor-” he started to say, and then hesitated: “Adam 

is his name.” It was the first that came to him. 

“A sensible one,” the woman affirmed; “I always liked 
Bible names.” 

“He is going to be the first of his race—a soul child. 
Through him, my soul desires shall reach fulfillment. A 
modern Adam with the heritage of all Man’s desires since 
his first namesake! ” Jean meditated. 

It was about ten days later that he received a letter from 
Clare, plain and sister-like. He replied in kind, telling her 
of the little child that he had taken to live with him and ex¬ 
pected to adopt. 

She told him in return that she did not like the name 
Adam. “It was too old-fashioned, and pity to give a child 
such an encumbrance.” She advised him to call the boy 


124 



CLASHING WORLDS 


125 


Keats, after the poet, the high-priest of Beauty, and let him 
be their soul child—their soul flower! She demanded to be 
his foster-mother, but only if he was named Keats. 

And so, Adam became Keats, flourished like a weed in the 
crisp mountain air, and became a great pal of Jean. 

It was part of Mary’s duty to keep Mr. Wildner advised 
of any unusual development in his son’s household. So in 
due course the former came to know of the addition thereto 
and surprised Jean one day with a visit. 

“Where did you get the child ? ” he inquired brusquely. 

“A little waif whom I heard about, and who conquered 
me completely when I saw him,” Jean declared. 

“Humph! risky business to take a child off the streets; 
never know what inherited criminal or base instincts he may 
have.” 

“I believe, with proper environment and education, a child 
will develop his own qualities,” asserted Jean. 

“Impossible to make Nature over,” his father said as¬ 
suredly. 

“I am going to try, anyway.” 

“You will have your hands full. Silly thing for a young 
fellow to handicap himself. Better put him in a good home 
somewhere. I wanted to suggest that you devote a little 
more of your time to me.” 

Little Keats came over to the old gentleman and climbed 
on his lap, smiling up into his face. No human with a bit 
of the milk of understanding within him, could withstand 
the hungry appeal of such a child. 

“He isn’t a bad-looking boy,” Mr. Wildner admitted, 
half-willingly. 

Jean stole away, and when he returned sometime later 
his father was on his hands and knees playing horse with the 
little fellow. This was the beginning of a strange com¬ 
panionship. “His real grandson,” Jean thought, “seems to 
understand him.” He was quiet when the elder’s mood so 


126 


SOUL TOYS 


required and lively when that answered his feelings. And 
thereafter Mr. Wildner called on his son with much greater 
frequency than had been his custom. 

One day the three were seated on the porch of “Soul’s De¬ 
sire,” when the elder Wildner said, “I must go into town 
and tend to some business. My will—going to make some 
changes; take care of this little rascal,” as he pinched the 
boy’s cheek, “and fix you up Jean, too. I used to think you 
were a peculiar outcast, but I have grown to know you better 
since you adopted this little fellow. I have increased your 
allowance.” 

“Thanks, Dad; I have to do some figuring to keep even. 
You know I practically support that social center on the 
East Side that I started.” 

“You get no thanks for it either—don’t believe in those 
things. I had to work for what I have. Let the rest do it, 
too.” 

“But if you could see the tired mothers who call for their 
babies, like Keats, after working all day, you would see that 
you couldn’t stop. And then the boy scouts who enjoy the 
gymnasium equipment with which I fitted up the place, and 
the food for the school children! There is so much to do.” 

“That is why I give liberally to the associated charities. It 
is their business, let them tend to it.” 

Jean recalled what one worker had said of his father: “He 
gives to everything, but does it grudgingly. He always asks 
what someone else in like circumstances has given, and then 
gives the same; never freely, or what may be needed. He 
simply does not let the other fellow get ahead of him, that is 
all.” 

It was only a few months later that Mr. Wildner, Sr., 
suffered a stroke of paralysis. Jean watched over him, mov¬ 
ing into the city house with Mary and Keats. 

Cornie wrote asking if he should return, but Jean told him 
not to do so. He felt that he wanted to keep off the day of 
his return with Clare as long as possible. 


CLASHING WORLDS 


127 


Six months after Cornie’s marriage, and while he was still 
in Europe, his father passed away. The end came with an 
abruptness that surprised Jean and left him with a sense of 
loss that he had never expected to feel. 

Cornie and Clare had not come back. He agreed with 
them that it would be foolish to give up the remainder of 
their wedding trip. They were in Paris at the time, and 
Clare had written that they expected to remain there for 
sometime. 

The only member of Jean’s family who could comfort him 
during the trying days was his Aunt Mary, his father’s sister, 
who had become a nun and risen in her order to a Mother 
Superior. As Mother Justine, she was in charge of St. 
Mary’s Academy in Yonkers. Jean had always stood in awe 
of this tall, stout lady with the pale, calm face and black 
garb. His father used to relate how, at his grandfather’s 
funeral, when Jean was a tiny lad, someone asked him who 
the lady in the black cap and gown was, and he answered: 
“God! ” To him, she represented the personality of the 
Deity, and he never outgrew that feeling. 

To Mother Justine he turned in his grief, and it was she 
who comforted him. Of an executive type, but with a 
motherly, kind soul, she always had an open ear for worldly 
troubles and offered sound advice as well as spiritual conso¬ 
lation. 

“Come to me with your problems, my dear,” she said. 
“It pains me that you have not been a good church member, 
but you are young yet and I have not given up hope of 
bringing you back. You are really the spiritual head of your 
family, with your beautiful soul ideals, but I wish you could 
see your way to reaching them through our beloved Church.” 

“It grieves me to hurt you, Aunt Mary,” Jean always 
called her that, “but would it not be wrong to do lip service 
merelv, when one feels he must throw off the shackles of 
form and ritual ? But you will not desert me now! ” he 
pleaded. 


128 


SOUL TOYS 


“I want to be your haven of rest, my child, and to teach 
you that the things you call shackles, are really wings to 
carry you to the heights. Come to me at any time, my dear.” 

Jean left her, as he always did, with a feeling of comfort. 

He thought to himself, that when he received the half of 
his father’s estate that he had no doubt would be his, he 
would assist his aunt in her great work of helping others 
with as much of his means as he could give. 

Back to the old home he went, awaiting word from his 
father’s lawyers as to the contents of the will. 

Death gives a new perspective to Life. Following its visit, 
the things that one has been accustomed to doing seem be¬ 
littled and senseless; and it is not until Time, in its usual 
course, closes Memory’s door, that again daily tasks are taken 
up in the former spirit. 

The day following the funeral Jean received a telephone 
call from Mr. Shaw, the family counsellor, who told him that 
he had his father’s will, and that he would be glad to call 
either at the home or have Jean and his aunt come to the of¬ 
fice. Jean told him to come to the house that afternoon, and 
then called Mother Justine and asked her to be present. 

At the hour agreed the lawyer appeared at the Wildner 
home. After greeting Jean and his aunt and offering his 
sympathy, he took a paper from his portfolio. “I have here 
Mr. Wildner’s will,” he began. “I will not bore you with its 
legal phraseology but will just tell you its terms.” 

Mother Justine and her nephew nodded their approval. 

Carefully adjusting his glasses, the lawyer glanced down 
at the document and said; “He leaves a trust fund of a hun¬ 
dred thousand dollars, the income to be paid to you, Jean. 
At the age of fifty, you can draw twenty thousand and a like 
sum every tenth year thereafter until you have received the 
whole.” 

Jean gasped. He computed rapidly in his mind the in¬ 
come that this fund would bring. At six per cent, it would 


CLASHING WORLDS 


129 


net six thousand dollars a year—five hundred per month, just 
the amount of the allowance his father had been giving him, 
and with which he barely managed to get along. “This can 
not be all that my father has left me! ” he thought. “What 
is a hundred thousand out of millions? ” His forehead bore 
a puzzled wrinkle. 

“He says,” the lawyer continued, “that he creates this 
fund for your own good and because he realizes your talents 
do not run in a commercial line. He wishes you to under¬ 
stand that he is trying to put you in an independent financial 
position, which he fears would not be your situation for long 
if he gave you money outright.” 

“What do you think of that? ” Jean asked his aunt. “Til 
be ninety years old when I get the last of the hundred 
thousand! ” 

“A most unusual provision, is it not, Mr. Shaw?” the 
Mother inquired. 

“Yes, indeed, very unusual. In fact, I advised against it. 
But Mr. Wildner was quite set in his opinions, Madam. He 
gave me to understand that he did not underestimate his 
son’s abilities nor his fine feelings, but he did not propose to 
have his hard-earned money ‘scattered to the four winds for 
foolish things’ as he termed Jean’s rather ideal plans.” 

“Go on, let us hear the rest,” Jean demanded curtly. An 
invisible barrier seemed to stand between the father he had 
come to know so well during his illness, and the man whose 
will was being read. 

“There is a legacy of fifty thousand to you,” turning to 
the Nun, “and all the rest and residue goes to Cornie.” 

Jean’s head suddenly fell to his hands. He sat as if in a 
stupor. His fine fibre shrank from admitting the injustice 
of his own father. 

The Mother crossed to him and patted his head. “There 
must be some mistake,” she declared. “I am sure Cornelius 
never intended to make such an unequal distribution of his 
property.” 


I 


130 


SOUL TOYS 


“There is no explanation of the way people make their 
wills,” was the weary answer of the attorney. 

“It’s funny, really funny,” Jean muttered; “ninety years; 
can you imagine such a thing? I have got to be ninety years 
old before I get all of that trivial trust fund. I really feel 
like laughing.” 

“It’s a cruel joke,” the Mother said with deep feeling. 

“It’s simply ridiculous, I can not believe it,” Jean con¬ 
tinued. “He promised to take care of little Keats, too. I 
had so many plans. I am sure I don’t know what to say,” he 
ended bewilderedly. 

“When was this will made? ” the Nun asked. 

“Six months ago, just before Cornie was married,” was 
Shaw’s reply. 

“Father spoke of changing his will a short time ago,” 
Jean said listlessly. 

“It that so ? ” The lawyer was interested. “He didn’t do 
it, however. So many men wait until it is too late.” 

“Could the will be broken ? ” the Mother asked with her 
usual business sense. 

“Well of course one always can contest, because of insan¬ 
ity or undue influence, or both, but there is a clause in this 
will, I don’t believe I mentioned it before, that whoever 
contests is to receive nothing. So you see, Jean would be 
taking quite a chance.” 

“My father left ‘Soul’s Desire’ a few weeks ago, stating 
that he had to attend to some changes in his will.” 

“I have looked after your father’s legal business for 
many years and he has not discussed the will question with 
me since he made this,” said Shaw, indicating the document 
which he held. 

“He might have gone to some other lawyers,” Mother 
Justine suggested. 

“Very improbable indeed,” was Mr. Shaw’s stiff answer. 

After the lawyer had gone, Mother Justine told Jean that 


CLASHING WORLDS 


131 


she thought he ought to make an effort to discover if an¬ 
other will had been made. 

“But how, Aunt Mary?” he asked. 

“Have you a pencil ? ” she inquired. 

Jean handed her one and she went to a desk and wrote, 
“Will lawyer who drew a will or codicil for Cornelius M. 
Wildner within a few weeks past, please communicate with 
Box No.—.” 

“Telephone this to the Times and get a box number,” 
she said, handing him the advertisement. 

During the following days, Jean conferred repeatedly with 
his aunt, with the Rabbi and Enoch Glynn. 

“It isn’t the money,” he told them. “I can get along as 
I have been doing, but it’s the fact that the provision brands 
me a failure, that hurts. My father felt I was incompetent 
to handle money. And the more I think about it, the more I 
feel he was right.” 

“You are so unselfish, your father could not understand 
you. Money has always been to you merely a means neces¬ 
sary to obtain your splendid aims,” the Rabbi explained. 

“I feel my whole life crumbling before me. Am I wrong? 
I believe the world would agree with my father.” 

“The World is not a fair judge,” the Mother told him. 
“A Higher Power would not approve your father’s deed. 
The World does not always appreciate the aspirations and 
the pangs of the human heart.” 

“I’d fight to the bitter end,” Glynn advised. “No jury 
in the world would ever uphold such a preposterous clause.” 

“What of your Science doctrine of peace and happiness? 
How do you advise bitterness and strife?” questioned the 
Rabbi. 

“Even the Science Church authorities have resorted to the 
courts to straighten out their internal difficulties.” Glynn 
cited that case as if it absolutely settled the matter. 

“And what do you think, Rabbi?” interrogated Jean. 


132 


SOUL TOYS 


“It is a matter for you alone to decide. "Honor thy father 
and thy mother’ is a positive commandment, and I believe 
applies to their memory. I would hesitate to advise anyone 
not to follow its behest.” 

"‘But if his father has been unduly influenced, would it 
not be Jean’s duty to try to find out his real wishes and 
follow them ? ” Glynn insisted. 

“I could never drag my father’s memory in the dust, or 
make my self-respect a morsel for public consumption,” 
Jean declared. “I have made up my mind. I have heard 
nothing from the advertisement. Apparently the will was 
not changed. I will not fight. Let Cornie keep it all if he 
wants to. I would feel so degraded in attacking my dead 
father that all the money in the world could never rehabili¬ 
tate me in my own estimation.” 

“You have made a good decision,” Mother Justine agreed, 
when Jean communicated his conclusion to her. “Our family 
honor must be maintained.” 

Clare wrote Jean of her surprise at the terms of the will, 
and in her letters he sensed a feeling of discontent. “I 
wonder,” he would say to himself, “if Clare is happy? I 
wonder ? ” 

He kept busy with his social service and settlement work 
but would brood for long hours over his soul desires. His 
spirit was across the seas; and it was only while with Keats 
that he could at all envisage his future. He felt he could not 
reach the top, but perhaps Keats would succeed in so doing. 

He left “Soul’s Desire” less and less and became more 
and more depressed and lonely. He felt hand-tied, he could 
not accomplish what he wished; foot-tied, he was unhappy 
everywhere but in his mountains—and purse-tied as well. 

His aunt tried to turn his thoughts to the Church, but he 
felt he could only breathe in the free air of his mountains and 
could not be brought back. 

“Should I not be satisfied? ” Jean asked himself. “I have 


CLASHING WORLDS 


133 


Keats, for whom I can plan, enough to live on, and plenty 
to do and think about. But how can I strive to attain my 
soul’s desire, which seems more and more to mean Clare? 
With her I could reach the heights. Perhaps the turning of 
the Wheels of Fate may some day bring Clare to me, but 
how? I will not covet my brother’s wife! ” 

Somehow, as he lay in the twilight on the little ledge of 
rock that so often supported him, the glories of the mountain 
lights in the blending of day into night seemed to overcome 
him, and he concluded, “Nothing is impossible when such 
grandeur of Nature can exist and be always the same, yet 
constantly changing. My life is not ended, it is just begin¬ 
ning.” He determined: “I will be content, I will trust in 
God, and I will yet triumph! I will completely release my 
soul and in the newer consciousness—a super-consciousness— 
I will control my existence! ” The leaves rustling in the cool 
fresh breezes of early June seemed a fit musical accompani¬ 
ment to his meditation and soothed his troubled thoughts, as 
he commandeered the utmost resources of his being to aid 
him in obtaining peace of mind, of heart, of soul. 




Part V 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 



I 



CHAPTER XIV 


The rolls royce which Cornie had ordered by cable was at 
the Cherbourg dock upon his arrival with his bride and they 
drove directly to Paris. The Hotel Continental became their 
headquarters and there they always returned from their 
travels. 

Cornie had many friends in the French capital and was 
his happiest when introducing Clare as his wife. His pet 
phrase was, “Gentlemen, my wife! ” He selected all her 
gowns, suits, and capes, going with her to the various fash¬ 
ionable establishments. She was his doll, dressed to express 
his views of the way a woman ought to look. She often 
rebelled at this assumption of one of her greatest pleasures, 
but had to admit that he displayed remarkable taste and 
conceived the most bizarre ideas. No native Parisienne was 
more properly garbed or in better style. 

Charity is the reason, or excuse, for many large balls. 
Everything was for Charity during their first season abroad. 
They attended four wonderful balls in the Theatre Des 
Champs Elysees for the City of Rheims; the Black and White 
Ball, (Noir et Blanc) ; The Ball of the Setting Sun (Couchant 
de S&liel) ; the Moonlight Ball (Clair de Lune) ; and the 
Rainbow Ball (Arc-en-cie) ; but the most astonishing of all 
was the Four Arts Ball (des Quat’z’ Arts), the annual frolic 
of Parisian Bohemia. They are standing on a balcony over¬ 
looking the grand march. 

“Talk about Roman feasts, Grecian follies or Carthaginian 
revels; this has them all beaten to a frazzle!” Cornie declares. 

“Look at Eve—with her fig leaf! But my, there is one 
without any leaf! ” Clare gasps as she points out the figures 
below. 


137 


138 


SOUL TOYS 


“Hot stuff, I’ll say! ” Cornie approves. 

Graceful dryads, dainty nymphs and fawns in sparse 
diaphanous draperies; a fascinating Trilby; maids in crimson 
and rainbow bathing tights, fairies and ballet dancers were 
mingling with nude priestesses of love! The latest sartorial 
stunt, lines stenciled on the skin, supplemented the briefest 
gowns. Gay troubadours, Egyptians, Arabs, Cannibals, 
Indians and whirling Dervishes in costumes almost Adam- 
like, were escorting them. Bronze half nude women accom¬ 
panied cave-men wearing single bear hides ! 

“It’s a reversion to savagery! ” Clare declares, while she 
looks down at her own harem costume. Cornie had insisted 
that she wear it and she had feared it would be noticeable 
because of its revealing character. Now its modesty surprised 
her. 

“Shade of Anthony Comstock! So this is Paris ! ” Cornie 
chuckles. He was in his glory. 

The ball-room was decorated after the manner of a Hindoo 
temple, with hundreds of vari-colored lanterns; and a group 
of dancing girls led the parade of floats from the leading 
ateliers. 

“Look at the elephant! ” Clare cries as a huge papier 
mache pachyderm passes; but Cornie isn’t looking at it, but 
at the beautiful young model seated on its high back posing 
as Lady Godiva—except for the fact that her hair was 
bobbed! Ten young women, elephant tamers, accompany 
the huge imitation animal. On another float, thirteen grace¬ 
fully formed models are prostrate before an art student 
representing Buddha. 

With the disappearance from view of the many fantastic 
floats, the dancing starts. The couples do not move about 
much but seem stationary wiggling matches, the bodies 
keeping time with the wild, weird music. Cornie was repre¬ 
senting an Arabian Shiek; and Clare watching him making 
love to Cleopatra, the Queen of Sheba, and a dozen other 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


139 


celebrities, feels she is really only one of his harem, for he 
seems able to make every woman he meets, part of it. 
Throwing herself into the riotous gayety with a reckless 
abandon, when the unmasking finally comes she finds herself 
surrounded by a group of admirers, delighted to find that her 
face is not a disappointment to them. 

“Ah! Madam, there is nothing like this en Amerique! I 
have been there! ”’ a Powder Puff maid boasts. “You lack 
the verve —the flair for beauty that La Belle France alone 
has! ” 

“I know one thing,” Clare replies, “there is only one place 
that is hotter than this room—and that isn’t a Turkish bath 
either! ” 

“The prevailing costumes seem to have been designed for 
the place you have in mind,” a gentleman answers. 

The saturnalian orgy is spreading from the ballroom to the 
cafe, where champagne flows like water, and to other nearby 
cafes, as the gay throng overflows to them. 

With the advancing hours the bluish light of the dawning 
day mixing with the electric brilliance diffuses a weird glow 
on the flesh tones of the thousands of dancers. Suddenly 
order seems to take hold of the throng and a huge circle 
forms, the front row sitting on the floor, the second squatting; 
the third on chairs; the fourth standing, and the fifth elevated 
on tops of chairs and tables—so that all can view the wild 
impromptu solo dancing of the stars of the Follies and 
cabarets, the usual early morning attraction. 

“What a dream! ” Cornie murmurs as a famous beauty, 
her black bobbed hair bound in a golden fillet, with a circle 
wrought in silver and studed with turquoises clasping her 
superb torso, throws her sandals to the crowd and begins a 
strange Oriental dance. As her supple, wonderfully formed 
body sways to and fro with an airy grace to the exotic 
rhythm, she tears her jeweled costume from her body bit by 
bit and tosses the brilliants to the most vociferous of her 
admirers. 


140 


SOUL TOYS 


A great cry of delight, “Vive longue les Quatz’ Arts! 
arises from a thousand voices as the dancer hurls herself into 
the arms of her escort. 

“Don’t you think we’d better be going?” The time of 
Clare’s question is several hours later. “We’ve been hitting 
quite a pace since ten thirty—was it last night ? I feel as if I 
had been here several nights! ” 

“It’s only seven now ! Be game, Clare! I am going to see 
it through. They say the grand finale is going to be the best 
of all! ” He continued with a tipsy enthusiasm: “I never miss 
anything! Wouldn’t go home now for the world! ” He 
grasps a post for support. “Take you home if you want 
and come back myself, what say? ” 

“No sir-ee, I should say not!” Clare’s answer was positive. 
“You can’t get rid of me as easy as that. I’ll stick to the end, 
if you have to carry me out! ” 

At eleven, in the midst of a wild jamboree, the dancing 
ceases and a procession of happy and tipsy revelers soon 
forms. Cornie calls to Clare: “Come on, old gal, we’ll join 
the par-ade. This’ll beat Barnum and Bailey’s greatest! ” 
Around the ball-room, out of the building and down the 
Avenue it continues. Some are marching; some are dancing; 
while others are jogging along astride the backs of cab horses. 
Heads and legs are thrust indiscriminately out of overfilled 
cabs and taxis. Atop the vehicles are more boisterous 
passengers. Cornie helps Clare into a cab and as others pile 
in, draws himself on top of the horse’s back. As the mob pro¬ 
ceeds with wild shouts, ribald songs and yells, Cornie sights 
a slip of a girl who is separated from her escort. With a 
quick jump he dismounts. Rushing to where she stands, he 
grabs her about the waist, carries her to the horse, lifts hef; 
on and pulls himself up after her. Laughing and waving, 
the fantastic procession passes down from Le Moulin Rouge! 

At the great open court of the Louvre it halts. A general 
romp ensues. All are pulled into snake dances, quadrilles, 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


141 


and circles. Kissing and hugging are the order of the hour. 
A game of leap frog starts. Here a nude nymph is taking a 
ride on a cavalier’s back as he cavorts about on all fours. 
There a dainty fairy is being raised high on her escort’s 
shoulders. Someone calls, “En Avance!” The horseplay 
ends as suddenly as it began. Again they are on their way! 

Over the Pont du Carrousel, and on they go until the 
Odccrn is reached, where in wild disorder the disbanding 
takes place. “La fin des QuafP Arts!” is the general 
lament as the gay animals seek their lairs or proceed to the 
cafes to continue their pleasure. 

Visits to the theatres and trips to the various dancing 
places became part of their daily program. Jazz bands were 
still the rage—only Hungarians replaces negroes as players. 

While he enjoyed showing off his beautiful wife, there 
were many times when Cornie would suddenly announce 
to her, “I’ve a date for to-night. Enjoy yourself while I 
am gone.” He did not care what she did in his absence, 
but insisted that she be ready to receive him whether he 
returned—early or late—drunk or sober. Frequently he 
would take her away from dinner parties or in the midst of 
a ball on some trumped up excuse after she had spent hours 
in preparation for the affair, and lead her back to their apart¬ 
ment. He made her his Love Toy and amused himself with 
her as he would with a woman of the streets! Supplying her 
every want, anticipating her least desire, he felt he paid her 
well. 

“I am a wife in name only,” she would frequently brood 
bitterly, “a slave in reality.” 

“You do not allow me to plan for myself, to decide on 
anything except these jewels and baubles,” she complained 
on one occasion when he was mellow with wine. Sleep, rest, 
her toilet, her gowns, her own engagements were all subject 
to his whim and caprice. She could not call a moment of 
the day or night her own, privacy was unknown to her. 


142 


SOUL TOYS 


“Gentlemen, my wife! ” Cornie used his customary intro¬ 
duction to a group of his friends at the Cafe Le Moulin 
Rouge where he had taken Clare to conclude an evening’s 
entertainment. 

“Some beauty! Such a face! Such a figure! What a 
gown, and jewels! ” were the comments Clare heard about 
her 

When she was thus the cynosure of all eyes, she would 
forget the indignities her husband heaped upon her. She 
loved the gayety, the music, the laughter, the life of the 
cafes. 

“There is Mrs. Cornelius Wildner! ” she heard repeatedly 
as they made their way through the crowded room to a 
prominent table. 

“Can we come over? ” a number of the gayest in the room 
appealed by sign and note to Clare and Cornie for permission 
to join them. 

Merrily they waved their consent and invitation. They 
were monarchs of the Domain of Pleasure. The adulation 
of those about her was food to Clare’s vanity—the daring 
conversation was champagne to her brain. 

“This is the life! ” she said to Cornie, as she sailed out 
on to the dance floor in his arms and was immediately aware 
of the excitement she created. Her face was expressive of 
the utmost happiness and satisfaction as men crowded about 
her begging a dance. 

“I have sold the Rolls Royce,” Cornie announced to Clare 
one morning after they had been abroad for several months. 
“I’ve bought a Daimler—eighty horse power! ” 

“Why the sudden change ? ” 

“I met Julia Seater yesterday, remember her? She used 
to be a pal of mine. She married the Duke de Bourane,” 
Cornie told her. 

“Oh yes. I went to Vassar with her. If my recollection 
is correct, the Duke was a handsome fellow,” Clare replied. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


143 


“But what have they to do with your new car? ” 

“They are on their way to Cannes, and it occurred to me 
that it would be very pleasant to motor from here with them. 
We’ll go on to ‘Monte.’ I am just itching to get at the tables 
there. We can while away a pleasant month or two. They 
have accepted my invitation.” 

“You might at least have asked me before you invited your 
other guests ! ” Clare blazed. 

Cornie only shrugged his shoulders. 

“When do you propose to leave,” she asked sharply. 

“How does the beginning of next week suit you?” 

“As well as any other time, I suppose.” 

During the following days until the time of their depart¬ 
ure, the Duke and his wife were the constant companions of 
the Wildners. 

“The Duchess Julia,” Cornie called her much to her annoy¬ 
ance and his own amusement. Her newly-found aristocratic 
manner and stately bearing were the target for his humorous 
shots. He enjoyed reminding her of their past escapades and 
kept saying, “I knew her when—” leaving the rest to the 
imagination of his hearers. 

The Duke held Clare’s interest by his democratic and 
almost bold comradeship. He was untouched by the flattery 
that the enviable position which he held in French society 
brought him, and was a good fellow in every sense of the 
term. 

Whenever the two couples would start away from the 
hotel together, Cornie would call out, “Exchange partners! ” 
as he took the arm of the Duchess and shoved her husband 
to Clare. 

“I’ll sit in front with the chauffeur,” Cornie said as they 
started on their motor trip, “because I want to drive a little 
later.” 

The Duke sat between Clare and his wife. “It’s all right 
with me,” he replied. “I’ll protect the ladies,” as he swung 
an arm about each. 


144 


SOUL TOYS 


Cornie turned with a grin: “Go as far as you like. I knew 
them both long before they ever heard about you.” 

The car shot out the Porte Maillot, and after making 
various turns finally struck the long steady ascent leading to 
Versailles. At the Petit Trianon all left the car and strolled 
about the beautiful park, admiring the fountains and the 
palace with its graceful buildings. 

Clare remarked softly to the Duke, “How wonderful it 
would have been to attend the marvelous fetes that took 
place here.” 

“I can picture you on the arm of the king,” he replied. 

“And I can see myself running away from him to hold a 
secret tryst with you behind that group of statuary.” 

“If we could only project ourselves backward a few 
centuries! ” was his wistful thought. 

“Come hither ! ” Cornie called. “We’ve got to get along.” 
He took the wheel as the others stepped into the car and 
soon had them speeding through the undulating country. 
Wide vistas of well-tilled fields and rambling old moss- 
covered farm houses opened up to their view. Occasionally 
great masses of dark green woodland greeted them, with 
picturesque chateaux towering above. 

“What place is this? ” Clare asked as they came into a city. 

“Orleans,” the Duke answered. “We are on the Route 
Nationale now.” 

A view of the three bridges spanning the River Loire and 
the twin towers of the old cathedral lay before them. Follow¬ 
ing the River they passed through the city and out into the 
country by many vine-yards and gardens, which bordered 
the banks. They watched the washerwomen beating and 
thudding their clothes on the boards as the bluish soap-suds 
poured off into the stream. One gray quiet village after 
another was put behind them until Blois was reached. 

Dinner was had in a curious old inn, the Hotel de V Angle- 
terre, on the quay by the ancient stone bridge which has a 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


145 


pointed obelisk at its apex. The long low dining-room looked 
out across the black river, and as Clare gazed into the night 
her thoughts became mystic and haunting. “What is Jean 
doing now ? Does he miss me ? Why is it that I am lonely, 
even in the company of this entertaining nobleman?” 

“A penny for your thoughts,” said the Duke breaking her 
reverie. 

“Where did you learn that Americanism ? ” was her answer. 

“Now don’t evade my offer,” he returned. 

“I was thinking of home,” she said sadly. 

Cornie caught her reply and with a queer grimace turned 
to her. “Home? Where have I heard the word before? Oh 
yes, that’s the club-house where the members of a modern 
family meet occasionally at meals and comment on the state 
of their respective healths, and sometimes acquaint each 
other with proposed plans for the future—then depart for 
more exciting company.” 

“Our Cornie has become quite cynical,” the Duchess said 
with a smile. 

“Home! ” Cornie continued, “the place where the dough 
comes from that we bake into sweet cakes elsewhere.” 

“Another glass of this Benedictine and we will be hearing 
him spout poetry,” the Duke said with a laugh. 

In their rooms they found heavily curtained beds with 
icy-cold sheets and immense feather mattresses. A little 
stand with a white marble top on which stood the inevitable 
glass tray with a bottle of rum, water and sugar for 
a final night-cap, adorned each room. 

The next morning the party continued on past castles, 
chateaux, and cathedrals galore to Tours. They were dazzled 
by sudden riots of color appearing before them—scarlet 
poppies and blue cornflowers in a setting of bright green— 
like impressionist paintings. 

“This is the country of Balzac and Rabelais,” the Duke 
told them. “Let’s stay here until to-morrow.” 


146 


SOUL TOYS 


“I am satisfied,” Cornie agreed. “I think the Hotel de 
rUnivers is the best place here. We’ll try it at any rate.” 

Late in the evening as they sat about a table in the outdoor 
cafe of the hotel, Cornie announced solemnly, “I give due 
warning that if anyone attempts to drag me to see another 
chateau, he is going to lose his head! I’ve seen enongh 
chateaux around this neck of the woods to last me for the 
rest of my days—and then some.” 

“You poor boy,” the Duchess consoled him, “you take 
your art like your liquor, in big doses, don’t you ? ” 

They were on a tree-shaded island in the middle of the 
road close to a statue of Balzac. From the cafe opposite 
came the sensuous appeal of the old love refrain: O sole mio. 
It was the voice of the red-coated leader of the orchestra. 
He stood just outside the doorway with his baton in his hand 
and throwing out his arms with thrilling gestures. 

“Now that is what I call real music! ” Cornie declared as 
he applauded. 

“Can’t you feel the Romance in the air ? ” the Duke 
whispered to Clare. The singer was repeating the song, and 
the night seemed to catch its breath as it listened, hushed and 
expectant. Clare nodded to the Duke. He drew her hand 
to his lap and pressed it vehemently. She did not remove it 
from his grasp. 

Again on their way, Touraine was soon in their rear and 
the first stage of the long run southward was begun over 
highways bounded by seas of billowy waving grain, and 
edged with tall poplars. 

Late in the night the lights of Poitiers appeared and the 
sleepy douanier welcomed them to the city and directed them 
to the Hotel Gaillard. 

Early the next morning they proceeded to Bordeaux. The 
car had to be slowed down time and again for large flocks 
of geese that pre-empted the road, each guarded by a little 
gooseherd. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


147 


“Watch me burn up the road! ” Cornie told the rest of 
the party as he took the wheel on a level stretch. 

A medley of towers, turrets, masts and sails, beautifully 
grouped, came into view as they crossed the bridge into the 
city. 

“The Restaurant du Chapon Fin serves the finest wine in 
town,” the Duke volunteered. 

“That’s where we will have our dejeuner,” said Cornie. 

The waiter officiated at the shrine of Bacchus with great 
preparation and solicitude and carefully decanted the precious 
wine. 

“We must stop and see old man Sauterne in his native 
haunt,” Cornie said as they set off for the town of Sauternes. 

“Our dear old dinner companion,” Clare added. 

A vast pine forest engulfed them after they left the old 
village and the chauffeur put on more speed in the silent 
stretches. 

“Dax is our next resting place,” Cornie told the others, “but 
not for long.” However, when he saw the magnificent 
Casino and the attractive promenade with its gayly dressed 
ladies, he exclaimed, “We can stand this place for a few days, 
I’ll say.” 

After dinner the Duchess complained of a headache, and 
retired. Cornie went to the Casino to “try my luck,” he 
said, and Clare and the Duke were left alone. They finally 
found a secluded bench on the wide terrace. The moonlight 
gave the trees, the flowers, the people, all an unreal appear¬ 
ance, and the big Casino behind seemed a fairy palace that 
would fade away in the daylight. 

The Duke sighed. Clare looked at him. He too seemed 
unreal. 

“If you were only my wife—” he breathed softly. 

“I suppose you’d be a king or an emperor,” Clare retorted. 

“The Lord only knows what heights I would reach—” 

“Surely the Duchess is ambitious.” 


148 


SOUL TOYS 


“I need a greater incentive than ambition.” 

The mystic spirit of the night seemed to seize Clare. She 
felt a wild desire to lead this smiling, handsome man along. 
With a devil-may-care manner she said: “Would I make a 
good queen or better, the Empress Clare ? ” 

“I don’t know how good you’d be—but a beautiful ruler 
you surely would be.” 

“Well, the king business isn’t what it used to be, you know; 
and how would you support your consort?” 

“Why refer to such prosaic things? I only know I love 
you! ” He put out his arms to draw her to him. “What 
else matters than love ? ” 

She pushed him away. “Please! Don’t penalize me for 
flirting a bit.” 

“Your husband doesn’t hesitate because of you. ‘What’s 
sauce for the goose’; you know the rest.” 

“But if the marriage candle is burned at both ends, it can’t 
last very long.” 

“But do you want it to last? I know you are not happy.” 

“Happiness ? What is it ? I am sure I don’t know whether 
or not I am happy! If it is merely contentment, sometimes I 
am really happy in possessing everything I have ever longed 
to have.” 

“Everything ? ” 

“No. You are right. I haven’t my husband’s love or 
respect—anyone can see that—it is no secret.” 

The Duke nodded. “And he hasn’t yours either. Well, I 
am in the same boat. They say misery loves company.” He 
looked at her expectantly. 

Clare laughed as she gave the Duke her hand. “You are 
what we call a good sport.” 

“Was it money caught you, too?” he asked. 

“Not exactly—but what does it matter? We both sold 
ourselves. Now we must make the best of the bargain.” 

“Do you care for me?” her companion asked earnestly. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


149 


“No! ” the answer came quickly. “I am frank with you. 
I enjoy your company—” She looked down. “There is 
someone else.” 

“Across the sea? ” 

Clare nodded. 

“Please believe me when I tell you that I really do love 
you! Don’t you think you could be happy with me ? ” 

She shook her head. “I am loyal—up to the present at an} 
rate.” Putting out her hand, she said, “Let us be friends. 
We need each other.” 

“A common trouble,” he laughed, “too-much-married-itis!” 

“Rather too little,” was her reply. 

Back at the hotel, Cornie informed them that they would 
not stop at Bayonne but go right through to Biarritz. The 
Duchess reveled in the brilliant scenes at the latter place. 
“The terrace here is as alive with color and light and as active 
as the boulevards of Paris,” she commented, “in fact it is a 
delightful P*tit Paris.” 

“You would be satisfied with me anywhere, wouldn’t you, 
Duchie dear ? ” Cornie ventured to say with a knowing smirk. 

“It is certainly a relief to be with someone who understands 
me,” she replied woefully. “The Duke is such a bore—he is 
a nonentity—you are a real man.” 

“It does you good to come off your high horse once in a 
while,” he said. “I am the irresistible Cornie! Duchesses 
fall for me like all the rest.” 

At Pau they stopped for a glorious view of the Pyrenees, 
and then went on to Marseilles. 

“It seems like coming into New York after a summer on 
Long Island,” Cornie declared as they drew into the busy 
streets, “but we’ll push right on to Aix-en-Provence for the 
night—I think we will like it better.” 

The picturesque Gorges des Ollioules presented themselves 
on the following day as they wound their way under the 
shadow of lofty piles of rock shining gray, green, and yellow 


150 


SOUL TOYS 


in the sunlight and between cliff-like walls, until at last 
Toulon was reached. 

“Hail the Boulevard de Strassbourg! ” the Duke cried as 
a burst of jazz assailed their ears. 

“Now for the dance,” Clare exulted. (< J’adore la danse 

“Sailors everywhere,” the Duchess remarked. 

“There may be an admiral about for your Highness,” 
Cornie predicted. “We will stay here until to-morrow, and 
then go on to Hyeres.” 

Seated on the terrace in the shade of some massive palms, 
Cornie put his arm about the titled lady. “You’ve a little 
kiss for Cornie? ” he begged. His companion pressed a cold 
salute on his lips. “There! No one can say I am not game,” 
she whispered. 

“You are almost human,” Cornie answered. 

The Carleton Hotel at Cannes was the destination of the 
Bouranes. 

“Why stop here? ” Clare asked as they reached it. 

“Cannes est le pays ou ’on jouit de la vie ’’ the Duke 
replied. 

As Clare parted from him she could not resist saying, 
“You have been such a comfort. I don’t know how things 
will go with us.” 

“Try to be true to yourself,” was all he replied. 

“Be good, Ducie dear,” Cornie called as the car again 
pointed eastward. The harbor dotted with pink and blue 
fishing boats, their sails patched with orange and brown, lay 
before them. 

“This is what the French call the Cote d’Azur ” Cornie 
explained as the car followed the long curve of the sea along 
the coast, past silvery olive orchards on the hillsides, and 
roses abounding in the gay gardens. 

At Nice they rested for several days enjoying its sun¬ 
shine, its gaiety, movement, and general cheerful atmos¬ 
phere, and Clare shopped along the Avenue de la Gare before 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


151 


they began the steady ascent of the Grand Corniche. Below, 
the city unfolded itself to their sight, the hills and the sea 
growing more beautiful with each loop about the heights. 
Hgher and higher they continued in spirals between walled 
gardens—the mountains above drawing nearer as the sea 
grew further below. In and out the road winds with ever- 
changing views—now great red rocks extend down sheer into 
the depths of the Mediterranean—again, a cliff comes 
between the road and the water, with a village perched high 
upon its very crown, as if to prove that man can lord it over 
both sea and shore. The ancient castle seems to look down 
on it all. 

Clare said to her husband, “I feel as if we were on top of 
the Equitable Building rushing around the roof close to the 
edge without any railing! ” 

“Makes you feel you’re kind of up in the world, eh? ” he 
flung back. 

“What would you call that blue of the Mediterranean way 
down there ? ” she questioned, leaning from the car. 

“Indigo or turquoise—some shade! Say that red-roofed 
villa up there looks like it was stuck there with mucilage.” 

Clare laughed: “It all seems so unreal; everything is 
exaggerated! ” 

“Ain’t Nature grand ? ” Cornie yelled as the wind carried 
his voice away. 

“Oh, how can you—this is the real thing! Just see how 
we seem to be flying in the air; everything is either far below 
or far above, we are midway between heaven and earth.” 

“Some Midway, this way for the big show—Monte Carlo !” 

“At the end of the rainbow—a pot of gold! ” she finished. 

“Or of cold porridge! ” Cornie corrected. 

“Color and light—height and depth—water below—moun¬ 
tains above.” Clare continued to interpret the scene as they 
drove along the smooth highway until they finally reached 
their destination. 


CHAPTER XV 


Monte carlo —the dreamland—a jeweled goblet which the 
World fills from a proffered cob-webbed bottle with the Wine 
of Life, sparkling with excitement, adventure, sport; bubbling 
with hysteria, greed, passion! This strangely different intox¬ 
icant with its delicate bouquet of love, beauty, music, and its 
cosmopolitan flavour, is drained again and again—but at the 
bottom of the cup are a few glittering, gossamer threads 
woven by the gilded spider—the Casino—sucking, crushing, 
enthralling all in its mystic web! 

Prepared to drink deeply, Cornie and Clare arrived at the 
Anglais and later dined at the Cafe de Paris; then followed 
the crowd to the Casino. 

“We’ll go through the Kitchen—the Devil’s Kitchen! ’’ 
Cornie announced as their car drew up to the entrance. 

“The Kitchen ? ” Clare questioned. 

“Haven’t you heard that before ? It’s the first big room— 
the piker’s palace—small bets predominate.” 

Cornie checked his hat and cane and they proceeded 
leisurely through the first hall, struck by a sudden hush rarely 
found in the most devout congregation. They stopped here 
and there in the Salle de Jeux to watch some cool system 
player jotting down each number as the little ball fell into 
a groove, and making comparisons with the printed deduc¬ 
tions and charts of others; then proceeded to the inner 
sanctuary, the Salle Privee. 

“No pikers here! ” Cornie declared as he sauntered about 
seeking to find a lucky table. 

“What is that little hunch-back doing here ? ” Clare asked 
as she pointed to the curious figure moving from table to 
table. 


152 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


153 


“Where is he ? ” was the excited reply. 

“Over there! ” pointing to the right. 

“Come on! ” he almost pulled Clare in that direction. 

“Why—what in the world are you going to do ? ” 

As they came up to the little man, Cornie stuffed a bill into 
his hand and then proceeded to rub his own hands over the 
hump. 

“Come on, Clare—it’ll bring us luck!” 

“Ugh! I should say not! ” As she turned away, people 
came hurrying to the distorted creature. 

“Here’s my place,” announced Cornie, taking a seat just 
vacated at a nearby roulette table. Clare stood back of him 
for a few moments. 

“Hundred franc checks, please,” Cornie said to the 
croupier, who speedily pushed a stack to him and raked back 
the notes. 

“I am going to start low—to get the feel of the table,” 
Cornie told Clare. 

“Do you mind if I walk around a bit and see if I can 
find Meta and Clay? You know they said we’d probably 
meet them here.” 

“Go ahead,” he answered, as he watched the croupier, 

Clare strolled about, her lovely face and figure, her shim¬ 
mering ultra low gown of wild rose peeping through her 
wrap of sapphire blue velvet shot with gold, and blue fox 
collar and cuffs, attracting no little attention. Numerous 
gentlemen of various nationalities offered her their arm, but 
sternly, although politely, were refused. 

A quiet, unassuming appearing man came up to her. 
“Pardon, madam, I am an attendant of the Casino. Perhaps 
I can be of assistance in finding someone for you?” These 
eagle-eyed detectives let nothing pass them. 

“I thank you. I am looking for some friends,” she replied 
and continued alone. 

Finally she met Meta and Clay and profusely greeted them. 


154 


SOUL TOYS 


“Where is Cornie?” was Meta’s first question. 

“Way down there! Just starting to play.” 

“Let’s go and bring him luck,’’ Meta suggested. 

“Wouldn’t you prefer to go up in the gallery and get a 
bird’s eye view first ? ” Clare suggested. 

Meta and Clay agreed and the trio made their way through 
the crowds up the stairway and finally took seats where they 
could overlook the whole scene. 

The shaded lights brought the green covered tables into 
relief with their double hedges—the borders of seated 
players and fringes of standing spectators. They made bright 
spots in the heavily carpeted room. Here a golden gown 
shone like sunshine rippling on water, there a soft blue 
brought forth thoughts of shimmering moonlight. Military 
and diplomatic uniforms heavy with gold lace added to the 
picturesqueness of the scene; the brilliant carmine of an 
exotic gown, the waving of enormous ostrich feather fans, 
the sparkle of jewels, the black and white of the civilian 
gentlemen, all made the hurry and turmoil of the outer world 
seem fabled lore and this the only reality! A fantastic moving 
picture come to life! The ladies’ hair—spun gold, pure white, 
modern henna—and the unusual number of bald heads of 
the men were outstanding spots. 

“It seems alive! ’’ Meta whispered to Clare. “The rattling 
of the chips, the scraping of the rakes, the excited voices 
seem to call us! ” 

“Little Roulette—I hear you calling me! ” Clay mocked his 
sister. 

“Look at that man over there with the scarlet uniform. 
Who can he be ? ’’ Clare asked. 

“Probably a conductor on the Imperial Railroad! ’’ Clay 
laughingly replied. 

As they passed by the many tables they heard the monoton¬ 
ous droning of the croupiers as they called, “Messieurs, 
faites vos jeux!” and saw these automatons with their 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


155 


mechanical gestures deftly rake in the counters, gold and 
notes and just as quickly push back the winnings. 

“Hello, Cornie, old man!” Clay cried as they arrived at 
the table at which the latter was seated. 

The tense expression of the player dropped like a mask 
from his features. “Hello there! Well, and there is Meta! 
Just a minute.” He took the counters the croupier shoved to 
him and piled them neatly in front of him, then turned to 
greet them. 

“Don’t let us disturb you,” Meta said. 

“Oh, I’ll let a couple of turns pass, I am only dribbling 
now. I’ll start in earnest in a little while. How are you, 
anyway ? ” He greeted her cordially. 

“Oh, do go on! I am so anxious to see you make a big 
winning ! ” Meta begged. 

“I suppose you think I am going to break the bank,” he 
replied with a laugh. “Well here goes—give me 1000 franc 
checks,” he said, as he shoved those he had, together with a 
bunch of notes, to the croupier and received in return delicate 
oyster-like counters. 

“Play the old combination, you know,” Clare whispered; 
“7, 11 and 13!” 

“No,” he replied with a smile, “34, 35, and 36 are my stand¬ 
bys to-night—and the third dozen! ” He placed a check 
on each of the three numbers. 

Clare let her gaze pass slowly around the table, pausing as 
she reached each of the players. Next to Cornie was a 
handsome young Russian, full-chested and broad-shouldered, 
with delicate aristocratic features, dark skin, fiery black eyes, 
smoothly plastered jet black hair. He seemed chained to the 
table, intent only on the play at hand. Jerkily he placed his 
bets, taking his eyes from the checkered board only to rest 
their stare on the rolling ball. He won and lost with equal 
equanimity. He was an old hand, it was plain to see—it 
was almost business for him. 


156 


SOUL TOYS 


Next came a slight woman with a false bloom of youth 
on her very dark cheeks and a forced brilliance in her jaded 
eyes. She was plainly Latin, either Spanish or South 
American. Between her bets she stared at the men about the 
table and Clare felt sure she was appraising her chances of 
catching them in her net. 

A clean-cut American lad sat next to her, plainly a college 
youth sent forth by an indulgent father, with a fat pocket- 
book to gain a finishing touch to his education. He was 
keenly enjoying the game, betting with reckless abandon, 
laughing as freely when his pile of chips diminished as when 
it increased, shoving every now and then to the adventuress 
by his side, a little stack—the tribute of youth to age. Clare 
could not but hope that he would not become entangled with 
the woman. 

A German officer, still wearing his uniform and even his 
iron cross, arrogantly tossed bills instead of checks about the 
table. He constantly played the black as if to show he was 
still loyal to the Black Eagle. 

Across the board was a strange couple—the man, a French 
boulevardier, weighty, phlegmatic! Under his eyes were 
ochre smudges, tell-tale puffs of a high life, more than half 
spent. He was perfectly groomed, his moustaches waxed to 
points, his toupe smoothly combed, a gardenia in his button¬ 
hole. His companion was a dainty elfin miss, vivaciously 
French, with a baby stare and bobbed hair. She kept begging 
for checks, which she scattered helter skelter over the board, 
while he now and then placed a single counter. He enjoyed 
watching her play. She kept constantly adjusting to her 
shoulders a magnificent chinchilla cape, which sent soft 
shudders up and down Clare’s back as she saw the ripples 
in the downy fur. The man never smiled—his features held 
a sort of sardonic grimness, an immobile gaze—while she 
kept up an endless chatter. 

An aged English dowager had the seat next to the couple. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


157 


She sat stiffly, as if trying to prove that dignity could be 
maintained even here. Her white hair was crowned with 
a jeweled tiara, her enameled face was smooth, accentuating 
her lynx-like eyes; her neck was enclosed in a wide collar 
of pearls, but her low cut gown displayed the ravages of 
age on the skin; the heavy brocade seemed a fitting frame. 
She played thoughtfully, resolutely, making several bets and 
seeming never to lose all she played. Her carefully 
piled checks neither grew nor disappeared. Occasionally she 
looked back of her and sought a straight, white-haired Eng¬ 
lishman with a wide blue ribbon across his shirt front. He 
was stroling about in a small radius conversing with various 
men; whenever she saw him talking to a lady she would tap 
on the table with her fan and he would come directly to her 
side. She would then ask him what he thought about playing 
a certain number. If he agreed that she should, she would 
not do so. If he advised against it, she would play it. 
Shrugging his shoulders he would move away. 

The man at Cornie’s left was a Frenchman, young, gay, 
jovial, joking with all about him. He was down to his last 
check. He threw it on Number 13. As it was raked in by 
the croupier, he arose, murmuring under his breath. “What 
would he do ? ” Clare thought. So some are always cursing, 
some blessing the Goddess of Chance, the strength of whose 
temple is the weakness of the World! 

Her gaze passed to Cornie. His desire for notoriety—his 
love of effect was apparent on his face. He was playing 1,000- 
franc checks! She saw the excited whispers of the French 
couple, the admiring glance of the American student, the 
envy of the Latin adventuress and the hatred in her look at 
Clare. The English dowager was again tapping her fan and 
whispering to her docile husband, who relayed the message to 
his friends. The croupier nodded to other attendants who 
made their way close to the table, and soon it was noised 
about that there was big play going on. The crowd increased 


158 


SOUL TOYS 


until every vantage point was taken, and others lurked nearby 
as if to gather some hope and courage from this “crazy 
American,” as they called him. 

Finally Cornie turned to Clare and Meta who were 
excitedly watching him as he kept a little better than even: 
“Here goes—each put a hand on my shoulder.” Laughingly 
they complied, but Clare thought bitterly, “I am never above 
any one else in his thoughts; at best, on a level! ” 

He carefully pushed two counters on each of Numbers 34, 
35, 36; then one between each; then one between 31 and 34, 
32 and 35, 33 and 36; thus he had surrounded his numbers. 
Leaning over the American student whispered to the adven¬ 
turess, “If any one of his numbers come, he stands to win 
over a hundred thousand francs ! ” 

“Mon Dieu! We must follow him!” The same thought 
apparently occurred to the others about the table, for a per¬ 
fect shower of chips soon covered these numbers. 

Cornie fingered his remaining checks. “Just enough for 
another fling, if I don’t strike it this time,” he said. 

Suddenly Meta leaned forward, just as the croupier took 
up the ball: “Put it all on the single ‘O’,” she whispered 
excitedly. 

Without hesitating a second, Cornie took his rake and 
pushed the whole six counters he had left on to the “O,” 
which nobody was playing! Clare held her breath! The 
croupier’s hand trembled as he spun the ball. The hum about 
the table seemed suddenly silenced; a tenseness was in the 
air; round and round the little ivory ball went its way—it 
slowed down—now it passed the “O”! Would it go around 
again? Slowly it crept on, then sank into the “O” as if to its 
home! 

A perfect madhouse followed—French, Russian, English— 
all in a polyglot mixture! “He’s dumped us! ” the English 
lady could not restrain herself. She tapped angrily for her 
husband. “Why didn’t we play the ‘O’ ? ” the student 
laughingly asked his side partner. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


159 


“He’s broken the bank!” others exclaimed. 

“He lost 12,000 francs on the thirties but he won 210,000 
on the single ‘O’,” the student explained further. 

The croupier had sent for more cash to pay the bets. 
“The table is broke,” Clay whispered. 

“The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo,” Meta 
laughingly sang, “but you are not going to play any more 
to-day, are you ? ” 

Surprised at her tone of authority, he looked up. 

“You are going to quit now,” she insisted. He obeyed 
without question. 

As he folded the bunch of crisp bank notes, he turned to 
Clare, “Lucky Meta was here.” 

Clare nodded. She could not analyze her feelings. She 
wanted to tear up the notes. Somehow she felt she had been 
cheated. “She wasn’t jealous,” she told herself. “She was 
simply tired of this constant lowering, of her husband’s 
appreciation of other women.” 

“We must surely have a blow-out now,” Cornie continued. 
“Come on Clay, take my wife! I’ve got to look after my 
mascot! ” 

The cool evening breeze struck their faces with a soft 
massage. “Oh, what a relief,” Clare gasped. 

“It was insufferably hot inside,” Clay agreed. 

“To Circo’s! ” Cornie directed the chauffeur as they all 
climbed into the car, and started off for the famous cafe. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The next morning Clare and Cornie again met Meta and 
Clay at the International pigeon shooting tournament. They 
were all seated on the wide verandah of the club house, 
facing the beautiful greensward where the contest was staged. 
When a marksman was ready to shoot, a pigeon would be 
released from a box the required distance away, and if killed, 
a dog would go out and fetch it back. One pigeon was not 
killed, only wounded, and circled back over the uncovered 
porch, dropping a seal of bright red blood on Clare’s white 
sport suit. 

“Bad luck, my dear,” murmured a lady seated nearby. 

“Bosh! ” said Clay. “It’s a sign of courage.” 

“A tip to play the red! ” Cornie cried, at which they all 
laughed. 

They idled the morning away, strolling through the 
gardens filled with rare palms, rubber trees, giant cactus and 
wonderful tropical shrubs. 

“How perfectly spotless the roads and stairways are,” 
Clay commented, as they climbed to a beautiful terrace 
commanding a wonderful view. 

“It’s the peculiar brilliance of the sun, as its beams are 
reflected from the mountain in back, that makes everything 
seem covered by clear liquid gold! ” Clay explained. 

“The light is so strong it almost makes one feel people 
can see straight through one,” Meta laughingly remarked. 

“You couldn’t see straight through some of the people 
here! ” Clay said. “They are so crooked, they’d deflect even 
these rays of the sun.” 

“Let’s eat lunch al fresco. I hate to go indoors here,” 
Clare suggested. 


160 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


161 


“That’s just what I was thinking,” Meta agreed. 

After they were seated on the wide porch of the seaside 
cafe, Clare said to Cornie: 

“Are we going to the opera to-night? Aida is the 
program.” 

“Not me, when the Casino is running! You can go— 
perhaps Clay will take you. I want Meta with me, she’s my 
mascot.” 

“Very well,” Clare returned crisply. “Clay, will you bore 
yourself with an old married lady?” 

“Marriage is the spice that adds flavor to many a romance,” 
Clay replied. “I will be delighted, I am sure.” 

Cornie’s attention was suddenly attracted to a very beauti¬ 
ful woman at a nearby table. “By Jove! Look over there! ” 
he indicated the table at which she was seated. “Isn’t she a 
beauty? Wonder who she is?” 

“French, don’t you think so?” Clare asked. 

“Surely. Did you ever see such a Madonna-like face? 
And her hair! Like spun gold! ” 

“Rave on! ” Meta urged sarcastically, “I suppose you’ll 
want to ditch us now.” 

Clare looked at her rather sharply. She resented Meta’s 
attitude. 

“How can I meet her ? ” Cornie thought. “Wonder who 
the gink is who is with her? Looks like he might be her 
husband or brother—he’s some relative that’s a cinch—if he 
wasn’t, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her—not 
to say his eyes! ” 

Cornie managed to prolong their stay at the table until 
the lady he had admired and her escort also left. He stared 
as if hypnotized. She turned several times and smiled. 

“Meta and I are going to play at the Casino this after¬ 
noon,” Cornie announced suddenly, as it occurred to him 
that by chance he might again see the lady there. 

Clare raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Very well; if 


162 


SOUL TOYS 


Clay will play with me, I prefer to try the golf course here.” 

“Delighted! ” Clay answered. 

The golf course proved to be a most unusual one. Located 
on a shoulder of Mont Agel, overlooking Monte Carlo, it 
rises abruptly three thousand feet above the Mediterranean. 
As they approached the first tee, Clay said to Clare, “This 
air is like champagne, it seems to intoxicate one with the joy 
of living.” 

“I don’t know whether this is a course for goats or 
humans,” she answered, as she looked back to the depths 
from which they had come. 

“A five thousand yard drive is certain if you leave the 
course,” he laughingly remarked. “If you fall off, you will 
land either in France, Monaco, Italy, or the ocean.” 

“Or perhaps in the Kingdom of Heaven,” Clare 
supplemented. 

They both had splendid drives and as they approached the 
first green Clay said, “A curley putt—you seldom see one 
outside of Scotland.” Each hole presented new problems and 
they were both tired out when their game was over. 

At the Casino, just as Cornie had some chips in his hand 
ready to place on certain numbers, he felt some one looking 
at him. Glancing up, he actually saw the face, a mental pic¬ 
ture of which had not left him since noon. The sudden real¬ 
ization of his wish seemed to daze him. He held the chips 
without dropping them on the green cloth. The croupier 
looked at him wondering at his slowness. At last Cornie 
pulled himself together and shoving his checks in front of 
Meta, excused himself and hurried in the direction that the 
lady and her companion were strolling. He caught up with 
them and followed a step behind, waiting, he did not know 
just for what. 

“Perhaps the Goddess of Chance who surely resides here, 
will favor me,” was the fantastic thought that ran through 
his excited brain. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


163 


An officer passing the lady turned suddenly and the hilt of 
his sword caught in her dress, tearing it. His apology was 
very profuse. Immediately she left her companion and 
hurried in the direction of the ladies’ parlors. 

“Here’s my chance,” Cornie decided. “While she is fixing 
the rip, I’ll tackle the old man.” 

Approaching him, he said, “Pardon me, sir, but may I be 
so bold as to inquire if the lady who just met with the 
accident, is your wife? ” 

“Yes, she is, but whom have I the pleasure of addressing? ” 
was the somewhat stiff and formal reply. 

“Cheri Lopate.” Cornie gave the name which he had 
assumed and used on all of his excursions into the Parisian 
studio and underworld sets, in order to avoid both the 
notoriety and the annoyance of being singled out in such 
crowds, as well as the danger of violence if he used his own 
name. He realized there were many who would think 
nothing of attacking a Wildner with the hope of finding his 
pockets lined with gold. 

“Cheri Lopate ? ” the gentleman repeated; the name 
sounds familiar.” 

Cornie smiled; he had selected it with that very purpose. 
It sounded like many French names. “Perhaps—it is possible 
—you may have heard of me, I am a portrait painter! ” 
Cornie had a mad idea to pose in that character, open a 
studio and get the lady to sit for him. 

“Oh, yes, yes, I recall now. I have heard of you. Can 
I be of service ? ” 

“Very much. I was struck by your wife’s profile. She 
is just the type that I have been wanting to find.” He was 
trying to make the suggestion very impersonal. “You know 
we like to vary our subjects. I have been in a rut, dark 
haired, fat old women. I must do some other type or I’ll 
lose my—my knack,” he finished. 

“You would like to paint my wife’s portrait?” The man 


164 


SOUL TOYS 


was plainly pleased. “But I am afraid I could not afford it.” 

“Please, please, allow me to do it for her, that is, for my 
Art’s sake! If it pleases you I shall be happy to present it 
to you; if not, no harm will be done.” 

“My name is Lameraux, Adolph Lameraux, Deputy from 
the District of the Marne. We will be in Paris for some 
time. I am sure Madam Lameraux will be delighted to sit 
for you. Here she is now! ” 

The lady looked up at Cornie with startled eyes. She had 
appraised his staring at noon and knew he had sought her 
out. 

“My dear, I wish you to meet a noted painter, Monsieur 
Lopate.” 

“Charmed, I am sure,” she smiled, as she put out her 
hand. Cornie pressed it a little too vehemently. 

“He has consented to paint your portrait, my dear.” 

“My portrait? Why, we can’t afford that!” she replied 
in surprise. 

“A beautiful woman can afford anything,” Cornie boldly 
answered, as her husband laughed loudly. 

“That’s good! Oh, you artists! You are not afraid to 
assault the heavens! He wants to paint your type, my dear, 
for Art’s sake—without charge ! ” 

“But surely you are not accepting Monsieur Lopate’s offer, 
however kind it is. I—” 

“Do not refuse—really—it means so much to me,” Cornie 
broke in. 

“You cannot refuse the gentleman,” her husband added. 
“I have always wanted your portrait.” 

“For your husband’s sake, then,” Cornie winked slyly as 
he said this. 

“Very well, but I will be a poor subject, I assure you. 
When and where shall I come ? ” 

“When do you return to Paris ? ” Cornie asked. 

“To-morrow evening,” Monsieur Lameraux replied. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


165 


“I shall let you know to-morrow noon. I will see you at 
the Cafe ? ” 

“Yes, we always lunch there. Good-bye,” she waved her 
hand in adieu. 

Cornie stood for a moment watching her tall, slender 
figure as it slowly drew away from him, then hurried back to 
Meta, who was making small bets in his absence. 

“I met someone I knew—pardon my staying away.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Meta replied. “You take my seat, 
and I’ll watch a while,” his own seat having been taken. 

Cornie had only moderate success and was prepared to 
leave when Clare and Clay met them. Later he sent a 
telegram to a friend in Paris, a poor portrait painter who 
had a studio in the Latin Quartier and whose wild parties he 
had often attended. 

“Georges Lore, Rue de Vaugirard; ” he addressed it. “Will 
rent your studio one month, your price, also your ser¬ 
vices. Reply if both my disposal. Cheri Lopate.” 

The next morning a reply came: 

“Everything I am or have always at your service. 

Georges Lore.” 

“That’s settled ! ” Cornie exulted. “Now for gay Paree! ” 

Clay had planned a trip up to La Turbie overshadowing 
Monte Carlo for the next morning, but Cornie begged off 
and was left to seek his new friends. At noon he gave them 
his studio address and made an appointment for the second 
day following. 

In the evening he informed Clare that they would leave 
the next day. “I have some business that calls me back to 
Paris at once,” he gave as his reason for cutting short their 
visit. 

They said good-bye to Meta and Clay, who were to remain 
for awhile and then join them. 


CHAPTER XVII 


As soon as possible after his arrival in Paris, Cornie called 
on his friend Georges Lore and took over the latter’s studio. 

“You will have to take a room elsewhere, old man,” he 
told him, “but you are to be where I can get you on short 
notice.” 

He rearranged the studio and fixed some screens close to 
the easel usually used by the painter. 

“Set up another easel here,” indicating a space behind the 
screen; “a lady will sit there,” pointing to a seat from which 
she could not see behind the screen. “I will pretend to 
paint her portrait out here and you actually will paint it 
back of the screen. But whenever I draw the curtain over 
my work—you get out! The door is right back of you, 
lock it and stay out, until I call you. Do you understand?” 

“Quite,” Georges replied. “When will the lady come?” 

“Tomorrow afternoon, but I will not need you the first 
day. You can get out in the morning.” 

Clare noticed Cornie was in an unusually excited state 
but she said nothing about her observation. 

The new owner of the studio had the stage all set for the 
arrival of Monsieur and Madam Lameraux. Numerous 
new fittings brightened up the rooms and the door bore a 
plate with the name “C'heri Lopate” emblazoned thereon. 

Welcoming them not too warmly, with a professional air, 
Cornie showed them about the studio, then discussed the 
portrait. After it had been decided to make it full length, 
Monsieur Lameraux excused himself, pleading an en¬ 
gagement. 

After he had closed the door on the husband, Cornie 
turned to the wife: “What a vision of loveliness!” he ex- 


166 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


167 


claimed. “You’ll pardon me, Madam, but my artistic sense 
carries me away. Today—I cannot paint—I must study my 
subject.” 

She smiled quietly as if accustomed to flattery. “I fear 
I will make a very poor subject,” she returned. 

He ignored her comment and crossed to her side. “Your 
hair,” he touched it lightly, “it’s almost too light to be called 
golden, and your eyes too grey to be called blue. Your color 
is just as delicate. You have an illusive charm that I fear 
the canvas cannot catch and reproduce.” 

“Is it customary for artists to—ah—study those sitting for 
portraits ?” she asked warily. 

“Indeed yes. One must acquire the proper atmosphere. 
Why, some artists feel it necessary to make love to their 
models in order to bring a proper expression to their 
features!” 

“And do you do that also ? ” 

“When the occasion demands. And I fear—you are too 
serious about this thing. I may have—” 

“Serious! Don’t think I didn’t see through your subter¬ 
fuge. You can’t afford to paint my picture without pay.” 

“I’ll admit you captured me from the first glimpse I 
caught sight of you. Money—bah! What is money to love? ” 

“Now he’s starting,” she said half to herself. And then 
to him, “Tell me, how could you afford ‘Monte’—you a 
poor struggling artist ? ” 

“A mad interval between ennui, desire and privation, my 
' dear. A fling for a few days, to obliterate the emptiness 
of life, until you came into it!” 

“Much like us,” she replied. “My husband is not a rich 
man, but his position as deputy requires certain things.” 

Suddenly, he took both her hands and drew her to him. 
“You know I am mad about you!” 

“Oh, but my husband—” 

“Forget him. Enjoy the deliciousness of our first meeting 


168 


SOUL TOYS 


alone. I’ll give you everything. That ivory neck needs a 
string of wonderful pearls, those dainty fingers are crying 
for diamonds!” 

Her face took on a puzzled look—she was more sur¬ 
prised at each succeeding promise. “But where could you 
get the money? You are dreaming.” 

He hesitated—he had forgotten his impersonation. 
“Dreaming? Yes, but you forget, the Fates were kind to 
me at ‘Monte.’ I will get you everything you can wish for.” 

Suddenly she pressed a kiss on his lips. 

“You are a dear,” she told him, “but I really must go 
now.” 

“And you do care for me a little bit?” 

A nod of her richly dowered head was the only reply as 
he helped with her wraps. 

“To draw love from a woman is like pulling fish from a 
pool—if you only use the right bait, you can always land 
them,” he thought to himself as he called a taxi and took 
his latest haul to her apartment. 

The succeeding days found the arrangement working out 
to Cornie’s full satisfaction. The real painter behind the 
screen, the pretender in front, and the dupe before them 
both! A constantly growing intimacy resulted from the 
frequent sittings and home takings. 

Finally during the absence of her husband from Paris 
on official business, Cornie succeeded in getting his fair 
model to accompany him to the races at Longchamp. They 
registered as M. and Mme. Cheri Lopate. He told Clare 
that he was going with a party of men. Meta and Clay had 
arrived in Paris and she went about with them. Cornie 
had told them of his studio and also of his pseudonym, 
saying that he really wanted to do something worth while 
in sculpturing. He always had a knack for modeling, so 
they accepted his latest stunt as a new whim. 

Clay was invited to several very wild parties in the studio. 


1 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


169 


Cornie’s neighbors in the Quartier, male and female, were 
quick to accept his open-handed hospitality. Three art stu¬ 
dents almost succeeded his old Heart-Mates crowd in his 
affections, Paul Bergerac, Henri Guillard and Louis de 
Maggio—the first two Frenchmen and the last an Italian. 

Monsieur Lameraux was called back to his home in the 
country for a week. So as the final celebration of their 
“vacation,” Cornie’s term for their complete freedom, he 
planned a wonderful party in his studio for the evening 
before M. Lameraux’s intended return. His wife was to 
meet him at the depot and accompany him on a government 
mission to Algeria. The completed portrait was sent to 
Monsieur Lameraux at his home. 

“An Egyptian Night,” Cornie called the party, for which 
the studio rooms had been emptied of their usual furnishings 
and the illusive charm of ancient Egypt substituted. It had 
become an old banquet hall with marble pillars on the sides, 
between which glimpses of the green Nile and the blue of 
desert heavens could be seen. Scattered about were mute 
sphinxes, dogs with heads of men, bull-headed idols im¬ 
passively viewing the strange hieroglyphics on plaques sus¬ 
pended from the pillars! Weird music, the clash of cym¬ 
bals, struck the ears of the first guests. At one end of the 
large room, on a throne with golden griffens on either side, 
sat Marie Lameraux, a regal Cleopatra, in a robe of pale 
jade green, open on either side and clasped with golden bees. 
Bracelets of pearls circled her arms, and a golden pointed 
diadem crowned her hair.. 

Cornie was her Egyptian Master of Ceremonies. His 
skin was bronze, his eyes oblique, his heavy hair plaited into 
little cords; a narrow strip of cotton about his loins; several 
strings of glass beads and a few armlets constituted his 
costume. 

Several waiters of nearby cafes, accustomed to anything, 
were made up as slaves. One stood beside the Queen gently 


170 


SOUL TOYS 


waving a huge feather over her head. Another opened the 
door for the guests, introducing them to Cornie, who pre¬ 
sented them. 

“Gracious Queen!” he called, “Kyra, one of your dancers 
is here!” as Lola Tuite, a familiar figure on the boulevards 
and a recently acquired addition to Cornie’s coterie of in¬ 
timate lady friends, bowed. Her gown was made up of 
myriads of pearls draped and joined in every conceivable 
fashion. “And Mark Antony,”—who was Paul Bergerac. 

“Lamia, an Athenian maiden,” was his next announce¬ 
ment, of Adele, a famous model of the Quartier. 

“And the Nomarch—Amoun-Ra!” as Henri Guillard 
stepped in. 

“Flora, a Roman courtesan, with Cheapsiro, commander of 
Hermothybia;” was the announcement of Musette, another 
model, and Louis De Maggio. All were in the briefest cos¬ 
tumes appropriate to the personages they represented. 

Clay arrived next—he was Caesar, attired in a linen tunic 
constellated with stars, a purple mantle over his shoulders. 
“You should have had Clare and Meta here, they’d have 
enjoyed it,” he told Cornie. 

“I am Cheri Lopate. I do not know the ladies you speak 
of. Come on, forget ’em or I’ll have my Queen’s slaves 
throw you into the Nile! Get busy! There’s a cocktail 
shaker and all the ingredients. These Frenchies don’t know 
how to mix a good one!” 

The others were soon swinging into a frenzied dance and 
Cornie went over to Marie, “Oh, it’s wonderful—such at¬ 
mosphere ! ” she sad to him as she sniffed the air, heavily 
scented with perfumes. 

The door-keeper ushered in Armond Belanger, a neigh¬ 
boring sculptor, dressed as an Egyptian oarsman clad only 
in a pair of narrow drawers diagonally striped, a red helmet¬ 
like cap topping the costume. He had a girl art student on 
each arm—they were ladies of the Queen’s court. The one 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


171 


on the right looked about and then crossed to Clay. “Mon¬ 
sieur, I am your partner,” she said. 

“Just in time for a real American cocktail!” greeted Clay, 
handing her a brimming silver goblet. 

“Come hither!” Cornie gathered the strange company 
about the table at which Clay was officiating. “Gaze upon 
the modern alchemist! He mingles all pleasure in one salu¬ 
brious draught. Go to it!” 

They grabbed the goblets and danced away. 

“I’m going to put on a real Midnight Frolic, Clay old 
man!” Cornie boasted. 

“Lay on Ziegie, you’ve plenty of ammunition here,” point¬ 
ing to the assembled bottles. 

“Look at Cleo! ” Cornie indicated Marie, “and remember 
one glance once caused the loss of half a world!” 

The slaves distributed tiny bows with arrows of rubber 
among the guests. Dancing partners were selected by shoot¬ 
ing at them. Later when they were all feeling gay and the 
contents of the bottles were fast disappearing, Cornie an¬ 
nounced that it was the Queen’s pleasure to view some orig¬ 
inal dances and poses by her guests. “First,” he said, “we 
will see Kyra, the Egyptian, in her famous dance, the 
Sphinx, reincarnated in the owl of the Quartier, Lola Tuite.” 

The music started with tantalizing, quivering wails, Lola 
began a shivery, creepy dance, flitting about, now leaning 
far forward, now as far backward, her supple hands folding 
and unfolding like snakes twisting and untwisting over and 
about her body, her many pearls rising and falling with each 
movement. The cymbals clashed, the weird strains grew 
in intensity, until the end seemed the howling of a pack of 
wolves screeching at the prostrate figure! 

“Now Flora, the Roman beauty, in a classic pose, the 
Roman Conqueror!” Cornie announced. As the girl stepped 
forward, a slave sprawled flat at her feet; deftly slipping 
off her flowing robe, she stepped on his chest, upholding her 
arms in triumph! 


172 


SOUL TOYS 


A burst of applause followed as Cornie grabbed her 
and swung into a fox-trot as the music started in 
again. 

The guests were sprawling over the benches; the girls 
and men hugging, embracing and kissing with a tipsy en¬ 
thusiasm for each other, as they arose and gyrated about 
the room. 

At midnight the slave waiters brought in tables and 
heaped them with dishes prepared in imitation of ancient 
repasts. The chef of a nearby cafe accompanied his produc¬ 
tions and proudly announced them as: the livers of scarus 
fish; eels fattened upon human flesh; peacocks’ brains, and 
stuffed boar’s head. The guests reclined on benches drawn 
up to the table in ancient eastern fashion, and Cornie rested 
his head on Marie’s white shoulder as he attempted to 
replace her crown with a garland of flowers. With feasting, 
drinking and dancing, the night of revelry wore on and with 
the morning, breakfast was served. At last Cornie led 
Marie away. They changed into their street clothes and 
started for the depot to meet M. Lameraux. 

“Farewell, beauteous Cleopatra,” Cornie sighed as he 
pressed a passionate kiss on her lips before they left the 
taxicab. She closed her eyes as if to prolong the bliss of 
the moment and held him close to her. 

“What sweet memories, my dear one, we will always have 
of the making of your portrait,” he added. 

“Who knows, Cheri my darling, we may meet again,” 
she breathed softly. 

On the return trip, Cornie dozed until he was suddenly 
awakened by the shouts of his friends waiting for him in 
the studio windows. Only Paul, Henry and Louis were left 
of the party. “ We returned our girls to their roosts, 
changed to our street clothes, and are now awaiting, Cheri, 
for your suggestion of a final thrill, la fin of your wonderful 
party. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning,” Henry sang 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


173 


out. “You know eleven is the conventional Parisian ending 
of the night before!” as he drained a champagne bottle. 

Cornie filled himself a brimming goblet and suddenly 
reeling about said: “All righto, we’ll finish these three quarts 
of Pol Roger —then I’ve a trick left in my bag yet. I’ll 
give you boys a sight worth while!” 

“Cheri is going to come across with a real treat!” Paul 
cried with tipsy enthusiasm, “What the hell will it be?” 

“A surprise and a damn good one, I know, because Cornie 
never fails to deliver the goods,” Louis said. He was not 
as drunk as the others, not that he had imbibed less, but he 
could stand more. 

“Lead on, we follow,” he added laughingly as he drew 
his staggering companions into a single file and pushed 
Cornie to the head. They marched down to a taxi and 
Cornie told the chauffeur, “Hotel Continental,” as they 
rolled away. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


It had become such a common occurrence for Cornie to 
remain away all night, that on this occasion it caused Clare 
no surprise. After such a debauch she often did not see him 
until dinner the next day, so she was totally unprepared for 
him to respond to her call for her maid. 

She had just completed her morning bath and was ready 
for her daily massage. 

As she stepped from the tub, her perfectly formed body, 
glistening wet, gleaming with a ravishing beauty in the sun¬ 
light that streamed in the window, and stood poised, her right 
foot resting on the edge of the tub with a swanlike grace, 
Cornie opened the door! 

“Good-morning, my dear—only the boys dropped in to 
say ‘hello’ to you,” he exclaimed, as he pushed the door wide 
open and led his boon companions, Paul, Henri, and Louis 
into the room. They followed him like sheep. 

“Gentlemen, my—” he caught himself; “my white marble 
lady! I give you your first view of the most perfectly formed 
woman in all Paris! ” he waved his hand like a show-barker 
as if to say, “Drink in the sight! ” 

In the shock of horror at the humiliation Cornie was 
causing her, Clare saw they were all intoxicated. She had 
brought no robe with here, and as she turned for a towel to 
cover her nakedness, Cornie pulled it away. 

Words would not come to her; she stood abashed, the 
blush of shame on her cheeks, the inaction of fright and fear 
in her limbs! 

“As graceful as a palm tree, as lithe as myrtle boughs! ” 
Cornie continued, his eyes showing plainly a gloating pride, 
as if he were displaying a prized statue or painting. 


174 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


175 


Paul Bergerac gazed upon the unveiled form with a 
covetous desire that expresed itself in the nervous twitching 
of his hands. This view was, for him, only a temptation to 
possess. “Mon Dieu! How perfect! If only—” was his 
befuddled muttering as he stared. 

Henri Guillard was keenly enjoying the simple fact of the 
present moment. He followed the divine undulating line 
from throat to feet. The perfection of form entranced him. 
“A nymph, and satyrs,” he breathed. 

Only Louis de Maggio, less drunk than the rest, glanced 
for a second at a time and turned away, as if blinded by 
the sunshine of her beauty. The exquisite tints of the ripe 
skin would continually overcome his innate modesty. He 
felt a sense of worship, an admiration for God’s greatest 
handiwork. The perfection of physique, unveiled for judg¬ 
ment, gave him a sensation of rest. The glowing face, the 
Seated cheek, the frightened glance, the golden hair shining 
in the sunbeams, the roundness and curves of the torso, the 
ruddy glow of the wet skin—to look upon these things was 
for him like gratifying the thirst. “A spectacle for the Gods!” 
was his thought. There was no sensuous desire in his eyes, 
only an appreciative wonder. 

Clare met his mute gaze and recognized that he alone 
would protect her, but she was speechless, unable to ask 
his aid. 

“I have gazed upon the sweet Spanish,” Cornie maudlinly 
rambled, “the delicate Italian, the massive Swiss, the 
vivacious French, the buxom English, the classic Greek 
maidens, but none, no, absolutely none, can equal the all- 
American ! ” He ended with a flourish of his hand toward 
Clare, as a showman calls attention to his wares. 

Finally Clare’s troubled eyes met Louis’ in a silent appeal 
that he felt called upon to answer even before she framed 
her simple 1 equest, “Please, please go! ” 

With a sudden start as if he had just realized the situation, 


176 


SOUL TOYS 


Louis exclaimed: “Cheri, can’t you sec the girl is scared 
stiff. Come on!” As he took hold of him, he declared 
solemnly: “Cheri Lopate, I’ve got to put you out.” 

Cornie jerked away. “Let me alone!” he said crossly, 
and resumed his drunken boasting: “I always dressed her in 
the newest fashion—there you have it—the newest and the 
oldest, too,” he chuckled. 

Grabbing Cornie firmly by the back of his coat collar, 
Louis held him by it with one hand, and shoved Paul ahead 
with the other. Henri followed, mumbling, “You certainly 
gave us an eyeful, Cheri.” 

“She’s mine, let me alone! ” Cornie protested. “I can 
show off my Love Toy if I want! Let me go! ” His lips 
were curled in a contemptuous smile. 

After Louis had successfully herded them out into the hall 
and she heard the outer door close, Clare collapsed. Her 
maid found her shortly thereafter on the floor, a limp, inert 
mass. 

When she regained consciousness, a weary and disheart¬ 
ened woman, she determined that this was the last indignity 
that she could stand from her husband. The humiliating 
scene would never leave her memory until its walls crumbled 
in Death. His passion seemed to have scorched and burned 
her very soul! 

Since his father’s death and the receipt of his wealth, 
Cornie had showered her with everything that the treasure 
world of beauty and comfort could desire and money buy. 
The only mourning that he did for his father was to regret 
that he had not gone sooner, so that he could have come into 
possession of his fortune a little earlier. 

Clare had long since decided that the sensuous and the 
ideal can never be reconciled; that Cornie’s love of beauty 
was not a pure ideal, but had no expression without an 
accompanying passion and was never free from the latter. 
It had no significance without such gross attendant feeling. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


177 


She had built a house with a foundation of Beauty and a 
roof of Ideals, but never lived in it. 

“There seems no way to satisfy Cornie’s imperious need 
for the company of beautiful women,” she pondered di¬ 
spiritedly. “What has my beauty brought me? Why did I 
ever renounce my soul’s desire for Jean and all his life 
represents ? I sold myself to the highest bidder! How 
different am I with education and so-called culture, a society 
bud, than an ignorant, common girl of the chorus or street, 
whose only asset is an exterior beauty of face or form or 
both?” 

She did not realize that there are two different types 
of beauty, one the outward bodily appearance, the other the 
exterior revelation of the soul. The expression in Greek 
statues always reveals a great and composed spirit. The one 
is a mere stimulation to sensuous desires, a pretence of 
beauty only—a deceptive fraud; while the other is a real 
call to honest love, a sound beauty, that will last as long as 
the soul remains true. Clare had dulled her soul-sense when 
she renounced its desire, and had dimmed her soul-per¬ 
ception of right and wrong. She consented to the whims of 
her husband because he paid her well to do so, and they 
were privately acted. It was only when he subjected her to 
this gigantic humiliation before others, and those his 
intimates, that her soul realized the enormity of its fall. 

“I can stay with him no longer,” she decided finally; and 
calling her maid, told her to pack a bag of her things. Jus* 
where she should go or what she should do, she did not 
know; only that to continue living with her husband was 
impossible. She directed her maid to pack her trunks and 
said she would let her know where to send them and to 
meet her. 

“I must go somewhere—anywhere—until, yes, there is no 
question about it, until I can let Jean know,” she thought to 
herself, as she started to look for some of her things through 


178 


SOUL TOYS 


the drawers of the desk that she and Cornie had used jointly. 
She noticed an envelope addressed to Cornie in his father’s 
handwriting, that had apparently dropped from a pigeon¬ 
hole. Mechanically she picked it up and threw it into her bag. 

She reached Clay by telephone, he was the only one to 
whom she could turn. He came to her and hesitatingly she 
told him what had happened. Although he could enjoy 
Cornie’s orgies, he could not fathom the depth of degradation 
that would permit of such action toward his wife, and felt a 
sudden sickness of the man whom he termed his friend. 

He said he would make inquiries as to when she could se¬ 
cure passage for home and attend to the same for her. He 
called later to say that he had been able to get accommodation 
on the Aquitania from Cherbourg for the next day. 

Then she dispatched the following calblegram to Jean: 

“Am leaving on Aquitania for New York to¬ 
morrow. Arnve 15th. Meet me at pier. Leaving 
Cornie forever. 

“Clare.” 

She determined to go to the Hotel Crillon for the night, so 
as to avoid meeting Cornie if he should return. She left a 
simple but expressive note: 

“You realize the impossibility of our going on 
together. This is the end. Do not follow me. It 
is useless. I want nothing from you and will take 
immediate steps to secure a divorce.” 

She stopped to sign her name, and suddenly a verse she 
had read somewhere occurred to her. She added : 

“You will live and die, 

A rose-fed pig in an aesthetic sty! ” 

and then signed it: 


“Clare.” 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


179 


Late in the afternoon she went to the Hotel Crillon and 
engaged a room. While waiting for an elevator, she noticed 
a French woman of unusual type sitting close by. As she 
was about to step into the car, Cornie entered the lobby and 
came up to the woman, saying: “You are on time for once; 
how do you feel after last night ? ” 

Clare stepped aside instead of getting into the elevator, and 
heard the reply: “Better, since my rival has gone! ” 

Cornie seemed to sense Clare’s presence and turned to her. 
“What are you doing here, my dear! ” he asked with a 
sneering smirk. 

“I have just engaged a room. I am leaving you,” she 
answered simply. 

“Entirely unnecessary! Go back to the Continental. I 
will not bother you further.” He was sober, she noted. 
“Lola and I will take the room you engaged here.” He turned 
toward the Frenchwoman: “Lola, meet Mrs. Cornelius Wild- 
ner, my wife—until to-day!” The woman bowed stiffly. 
“Clare, this is Lola Tuite, your successor to be! ” 

Clare gazed in astonishment. She was a new type to her. 
Tall, thin, and straight in outline, she wore a strange oriental¬ 
looking dress and a quantity of clattering and clanking beads 
and chains which hung from her neck and dangled from her 
waist and hips. A little turban of gold cloth, drawn tightly 
down to very black eyebrows, topped her attire. Two stiff 
wings of jet black hair, sticking out in sharp points in a 
direct line between her ears, almost hid her cheeks, which 
were heavily painted and powdered a dull white. Her lips 
were colored a wine red. She twitched her very white and 
shapely hands nervously, her only lack of composure. Her 
dress was a bright henna with slippers and stockings to 
match. 

Clare looked at her coldly: “It is customary to await the 
death of the queen before crying, ‘God save the Queen,’ ” she 
remarked. “I will return to the Continental for to-night. I 


180 


SOUL TOYS 


am leaving for America to-morrow and will start divorce 
proceedings at once.” 

“Indeed,” he declared, “you will not! Lola and I are 
leaving on the Aquitania to-morrow and I—yes I —will start 
the proceedings. Do you comprehend? You will remain 
here until / have secured the divorce.” 

She looked at him in unfeigned amazement. “You—you 
contemptible cur! ” she cried in her fury and astonishment, 
“what possible grounds can you have?” 

“Let us go up to your room. I detest a public scene,” he 
asserted as he looked at several people who were eyeing 
them curiously. Dazed with the shock of his announcement, 
Clare accompanied them to the upper floor. 

“A certain letter, my dear, and a reply,” he began after 
they were seated. 

“To what do you refer?” she feigned ignorance of his 
meaning. 

“A very effusive confession that you made to my dear 
brother Jean on the exciting night of our engagement, and 
his answer.” He quietly snapped out the hateful words. 

She knew it was useless to plead further lack of knowledge. 
“Where did you get them ? ” was all she could say. 

“You remember how frightened you became, when you 
had told me that the key to your jewel case also opened the 
inside drawers? Let me see, that was the morning after 
our marriage. Well, I wondered what those drawers could 
contain that the slip had so upset you. Apparently you 
forgot all about it after we were settled on the steamer, for 
you made no objection when the next evening—the second 
of our married life—I asked you for the key to your jewelry 
box. I wanted my dress links and studs, and said I would 
go into our parlor and dress for dinner ahead of you. You 
gave me the key. I found the letters and took them, as I 
believed I had a right to do. My wife’s love letters were 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


181 


safer in my possession than her own. I am surprised you 
never missed them.” 

She calmed herself as she listened to his disclosure. When 
he had finished, she said: “I promised myself, when I locked 
them away, as I locked my love away in my heart, that 1 
would not open either as long as you were my husband. I 
have been true to my promise. Since your outrageous treat¬ 
ment of me yesterday, I do not consider you my husband 
any longer.” 

“Thank you,” he said cynically, “I never considered you 
my wife since the time I found those letters, the first day 
of our married life! I knew then that you did not love me. 
It was not very pleasant information for me, I assure you. 
I could not have discussed it then as now. I realized that 
you had married me only to satisfy your craving for luxury, 
society, and travel—and I had always loved you devotedly!” 

She sat mute, overcome by the fact of his knowledge. 

“Well, I gave you all you expected. I had cravings, too. 
I satisfied them also, took what I wanted. I made you my 
Love Toy! I am tired of you now. I throw you away like 
a broken toy—and I take a new one,” he sneered as he 
leered toward Lola. 

“You savage, you brute! ” Clare boiled over with indig¬ 
nation. “You ruined my life, and now you want to spoil 
my reputation—all that I have left! ” 

“The Lord giveth. He taketh away,” blasphemed Cornie, 
with a diabolical smile. 

“You and your love for Beauty—frauds both—I hate 
you! ” she sobbed, as she finally saw that she had been made 
captive by Cornie and not he by her. 

“Like your love, and your soul desire,” he returned with 
equal bitterness. 

“I married you, loving you with all the intensity of my 
passions. You were the embodiment of the Spirit of Beauty 
to me; then I discovered that letter, the index to your mind 


182 


SOUL TOYS 


and heart. I determined to squeeze you as dry as I would 
a lemon; to take my fill of your beauty and when I grew 
tired of you, discard you. That time has come. Do you 
think I would care to have a woman as my wife, whose 
charms I had openly exhibited as I did yours? No, it is I, 
not you, who will get the divorce.” 

“Don’t think for a moment that I will let you get away 
with that! I’ll fight to the bitter end! ” she said with 
determination. 

“What of your reputation, then? Will you tell of the 
recent scene in the Continental?” he replied. “You may 
have two choices, stay here in Paris, or go to my brother 
Jean; he and his adopted child will no doubt welcome you. 
I give you to them, but you go as you came to me. You’ll 
not take a penny of my money! Jean may give you what 
you want on his few thousand a year. His income perhaps 
might buy you one gown a month—and you had—how 
many ? ” 

“The path of dishonor is always open. I zuill go to Jean,” 
she decided aloud. “I should never have married you! You 
have the morals of a tom cat! ” was her final fling as she left 
the room. She realized she had not taken the honors in their 
verbal battle. 

Lola Tuite had sat silently puflfing a cigarette, thoroughly 
enjoying the scene; and when Clare had gone, she asserted, 
“You will marry me, when you have divorced her. Un de 
perdu, deux de retrouves! ” 

“Marry you? Never! You came to me as a Love Toy, 
and so you will remain. When I have my divorce—I will 
marry, yes, but someone who always has loved me.” He saw 
in a vision, pretty Meta Clay and the worshipping eyes 
with which she always regarded him. It was only recently in 
Monte Carlo that he realized her love and that her piquant 
prettiness had appealed to him and finally “got” him, as he 
put it in his own thoughts. 


SEAS OF PLEASURE 


183 


“You are like a Frenchman,” she said resignedly. “He 
never marries his mistress. Even when his wife dies he 
selects someone else and his mistress remains—his mistress. 
Ah mais! a votre dise —only be good to me, I ask no more,” 
she finished appealingly. 

He kissed her and threw her a diamond ring he had 
purchased that morning. 

“You darling,” she wept her gratefulness on his shoulder. 

On the Aquitania there sailed: Cornelius M. Wildner and 
Lola Tuite, registered as Mr. and Mrs. C. M. Wildner; 
and Clare Wildner, registered simply as C. Wildner. The 
latter avoided the other passengers as much as possible and 
sought not to meet her husband and his companion. The 
first night out she found a secluded seat in the beautiful 
lounge, but the cheerful music brought thoughts that forced 
her out on the deck, where she sat in solitude until a late hour. 

The next day she saw her husband and Lola engaging in a 
lively game of shuffle-board, but managed to avoid an out 
and out meeting throughout the voyage. The days seemed to 
be leaden, they passed so slowly, but finally the end came. 

With what different thoughts she returned to her native 
country, than when she left it! Her bark of happiness had 
floundered on the Shoals of Marriage. She felt, as she 
crossed the ocean, that the Waves of Destiny were carrying 
her back to “Soul’s Desire” where she hoped to find peace 
and solace with Jean in the Mountains of Love. 





















Part VI 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 



CHAPTER XIX 


It was a composed woman who came down the gang plank 
and met Jean with a simple handshake. Clare’s desire was 
to throw her arms about his neck, and cry, “Take me, I am 
yours forever! ” but actually she said, “I will go to the 
Modore until I decide what I shall do.” She avoided her 
husband and his companion as they left the steamer. 

Mr. and Mrs. Emerson did not know of their daughter’s 
arrival as she had not advised them of her homecoming, 
wishing to make her plans first. 

Finally freed of customs requirements, Jean took Clare 
to the hotel. After securing her room they went to lunch 
together in the cafe. There she unburdened herself and 
asked what she should do. He advised that she stay in the 
city a few days, rest, and consider her situation. He did 
not wish to urge her to come to him too quickly, so she 
remained at the Modore during four hot July days, while 
they almost constantly discussed her future. 

Jean advised that she should come to “Soul’s Desire” 
to recuperate her health and spirits. Clare voiced her dissent 
because of the opportunity it would afford others to drag 
their names in the mire of scandal. 

“You must come,” Jean insisted. “My heart is dusty— 
parched for the want of the rain of your love.” 

“How can you love me now? I am blackened—unclean— 
impure ! You are still white—clean—pure!” 

“Though the whice diamond be cast in the dust, its purity 
cannot be lastingly sullied,” he replied. 

“People will point the finger of guilt at us,” she countered. 

“You are still my sister-in-law!” was his persistent 
answer. “You surely may visit your brother-in-law and 


187 


188 


SOUL TOYS 


nephew without stirring up the gossips’ tongues. Come to 
‘Soul’s Desire’,” he pleaded, “Keats and I are longing for 
you.” 

When she finally consented, Clare telephoned her mother 
at “World’s End,” where her parents were living, and simply 
told her that she had left Cornie and was going to “Soul’s 
Desire.” 

As she expected, her mother could not understand why 
she should not come home. Clare could not even think of 
meeting her friends, and those of her parents, in her present 
mental state. It seemed that only the peace, quiet, and isola¬ 
tion of “Soul’s Desire” could calm her and that without 
Jean’s companionship, she simply could not go on. 

At last her mother saw the futility of further argument. 
Clare was told that her parents would go up to “Soul’s 
Desire” for the week-end to see her. 

And so to “Soul’s Desire” Clare Wildner went, heedless 
of her reputation, caring only for the peace that she was sure 
would come with Jean and Keats. 

“I thought I ‘loved’ Cornie, but it was only what he could 
give me. Now I know it was only you I was ‘in love’ with. 
One may ‘love’ often, but be ‘in love’ only once. The latter is 
like a torrent rush of feeling, which can move only toward 
one person! ” Clare gave vent to her feelings. 

“I know what you mean,” Jean agreed softly. “A 
flood of water may embrace and surround several islands, 
but it can not very well flow in more than a single direction 
at one time. It can not last forever. Either it subsides into 
a lake-like stage or runs itself out and disappears forever. 
Our love is just reaching the lake stage and so it will stand 
deep and pure, peaceful and quiet.” 

“God grant it may ever be so! ” breathed Clare with deep 
feeling in her voice. 

“You must forget the past and live only in the present,” 
Jean advised sincerely. Clare tried her best to follow this 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


189 


advice, but when her parents arrived, it all came back to her 
with a rush of feeling. 

“How worn out you look, my dear child! ” her father 
remarked as he kissed her. “Your European trip hardly 
seems to have agreed with you.” 

“No, it certainly did not,” Clare admitted the truth of his 
comment. 

“Whatever happened ? ” her mother greeted her in an 
excited manner. “Your letters were always so cheerful! 
This is such a shock.” 

Slowly, haltingly, Clare gave her parents a vivid account 
of her married life. 

Sympathize with her they did, but understand her they did 
not. 

“If you only had not written that awful letter, or if you 
had destroyed it when Jean returned it to >ou! Why did you 
keep them ? ” lamented her mother, “I know Cornie loved 
you, until he found those letters.” 

“It was very careless of you! ” her father impatiently 
complained. “You would have saved yourself so much! ” 

“Perhaps,” she admitted, “but it would have come sooner 
or later! You see, I never loved him.” 

“Love! Bah! Look what he gave you! ” was her father’s 
caustic comment. “Love is all very well in movies and books 
—but in real life—” he left his hearers to surmise the rest. 

“Having is not everything, that much I have learned,” 
was her positive retort. 

“I think Cornie might have outgrown his eccentricities, if 
you had been a little more patient with him; one must over¬ 
look many things in a man of unlimited means,” was Mr. 
Emerson’s criticism. 

“Unlimited nerve—unending passion you mean! ” cried 
Clare. “If money is the pass to every sensuous gratification, 
it should be forcibly taken away from men like Cornie! ” 

“Perhaps, if I write to Cornie,” her father suggested, 


190 


SOUL TOYS 


“he may take you back. Such things have been patched 
up! ” 

“Take me back! ” she laughed. “Hardly! As if I ever 
would go back! ” 

“Well, what do you propose to do now?” Mrs. Emerson 
expressed her exasperation. “You cannot stay on here 
indefinitely.” 

“I will remain here until Cornie secures his divorce. Then 
I will see.” 

“Gets his divorce! ” Emerson snorted in angry tones. 
“You will not let him besmirch our name—and go scot free 
without paying you alimony.” 

“It shows how little you know your own daughter! ” was 
the spirited reply. “I could not contest if I wished—my 
letter would convict me—and I would not accept his money. 
He cannot pay me off like his mistresses! But anyway, he 
said he would not give me a penny, so you need not expect 
that.” 

“Surely you do not think I want his money ? ” her father 
implored her. 

“Forgive me, I know I am cruel; but I have suffered so 
much that I am heedless of what I say.” 

“How can he get a divorce—he is a Catholic? ” 

“There are ways and means to accomplish many seemingly 
impossible things,” she replied. 

“And if he does secure it?” her mother probed. 

“I will marry Jean—if he will have me.” 

Simultaneously her parents threw up their hands in horror. 
Mrs. Emerson first recovered her voice. 

“Your reputation! Our friends! What will they say?” 

“Undoubtedly agree with you, that your daughter is crazy 
to leave her rich husband for his poor brother,” Clare 
answered concisely. 

Her father suddenly blazed out: “You are no daughter of 
mine, if you continue to live here like this. It was bad enough' 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


191 


to write such a crazy letter—and make a fuss over a lot of 
damn foolishness, and run away from a good sensible 
husband who worshipped your beauty, perhaps too much. 
But to come here like a brazen hussy and tell us, while you 
are legally bound to one man, that you propose to marry 
another! Is this what the Catholic religion has taught you ? ” 

“My kind, sympathetic father,” Clare replied ironically; 
“I will be the guilty party in our divorce action. I will be 
read out of my adopted church—bell, book, and candle. It 
is more likely that your rigid strict training has upset my 
moral code. Money was the God before whom you taught 
me to bow down; Society, the priests upon whom I must 
fawn; and Pleasure, the great Heaven I must seek! All 
this I have done—you see me to-day—the Wheels of your 
Gods have ground my life to a very fine pulp.” 

Mrs. Emerson was weeping. Clare never remembered 
seeing her shed tears before. “I can’t bear it, it’s too much! ” 
she sobbed at last. “I tried so hard to make you happy. ” 

“Happy? That is what I propose to be—and will be! 
Then you have no cause to complain.” 

“But not in such a way! ” her mother objected. 

“Happiness makes its own way! ” Clare epitomized her 
feelings. 

“Unless you have a reconciliation with your husband, I 
wash my hands of you! ” Her father had finally decided on 
the stand he would take. 

She looked at her mother, who was again weeping. Mrs. 
Emerson met her glance with a hostile eye. “Your father is 
right. It is our duty to be firm. Choose between us—your 
husband and your parents against—” 

Just at this moment Jean came up to them; she finished 
by pointing at him. 

He looked at the group in surprise, as he sensed the 
tenseness of the situation. 

Clare extended her hand. Jean grasped it fervently. “I 
choose my Soul Mate! ” she announced proudly. 


192 


SOUL TOYS 


“Call our car please! ” Mrs. Emerson turned to her hus¬ 
band : “We are no longer of any importance in our daughter’s 
life. ,> 

Her father glared at Clare, as if unable to comprehend 
that she could be as firm as they were, and hurried down 
the steps to the garage. 

“Why, Clare, what has happened?” Jean asked. 

“My parents have issued an ultimatum,” she explained: 
“Either I return to my husband, or they ‘wash their hands 
of me/ ” she repeated. “I suppose that means that they will 
cease to consider me as their daughter! ” 

The car came up to the porch and with an exceptionally 
arrogant toss of her head Mrs. Emerson moved majestically 
to her seat, and without further words, Clare’s parents drove 
away. 

“You did that—for me?” Jean could not restrain the 
wonder from his voice as he took her in his arms. 

Suddenly the tension gave way and Clare sobbed on his 
breast as she had done as a little child on her mother’s. 

“There, there,” he petted her. “It will all come out all 
right.” 

She raised trusting eyes to his. “You will have to be 
father and mother to me, as well as husband.” 

“Even that will I be,” he answered; the phrase had a vague 
familiarity to Clare. She considered it for a moment, then 
recalled his reply to her confessional letter—“ ‘You ask me to 
be your back-ground, your life-line, to which you can cling 
when in need. Even that will I be!’ I can cling to you alone! ” 
she echoed her need. 

“I will draw you to the Land of Happiness, across the 
Ocean of Faith,” was the comforting reply. 

“Is it wrong for us to tell how much we care for each 
other, while I am still legally another’s wife?” Clare asked 
Jean one evening as they sat in the moonlight. 

“So long as our actions are pure, and we know that we 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


193 


have done no wrong, why should we hesitate to voice our 
desires, our feelings, our hopes? Surely there can be no 
harm in that,” Jean pleaded earnestly. 

“What will your Aunt Mary say to it all ? ” she faltered. 

“She loves me; she will not ask me to be unhappy.” 

“But her Church—” persisted Clare. 

“That is why I have not affiliated myself with it. The 
iron-clad rules stifle me. I will not ruin my life for my 
Church,” he said positively. 

“Love is the great new foundation of modern religion,” 
Clare observed. “Why should we not follow its dictates?” 
And at the same time a small voice within questioned, “Why 
did you not do so in the first place? You spoiled your life, 
and Jean’s too, by following after false gods.” 

It became very cool and they went inside. Jean piled 
some logs in the grate and soon had a cheerful fire sputtering 
away. They sat on a little bench before it, resting their 
heads on their hands, contemplating the various shapes in 
the bright coals. 

Clare sighed, and Jean asked why she did so. “This is too 
perfect,” she explained, “I feel so serene and peaceful, like 
the calm that follows the storm.” 

“Our souls are expanding,” he said. “We are severing 
our mortal bonds and flying in the realm of true love; it is 
like untying the fastening of a fine thread—setting our souls 
at liberty.” 


CHAPTER XX 


“I note that the number of divorce cases awaiting trial in 
London is growing at the rate of nearly five hundred per 
month! That’s jumping by leaps and bounds all right. 
England is surely getting in the race for freedom,” asserted 
Arthur Shaw to his partner, as he sat in his office reading an 
English publication. 

“The door to domestic freedom is too easily opened in 
these days. That is why there are so many clamoring at it,” 
his associate answered. 

There was a knock at the door. “Here comes another 
seeker for liberty,” Shaw smilingly prophesied. A clerk 
announce dthat Mr. Cornelius Wilder wished to see him. 

“You are a false prophet,” the younger man said as he 
left the room; but he was not. 

“I have just returned from Paris,” the visitor explained 
after he had been warmly welcomed. 

“What can I do for you, my dear Cornelius?” asked the 
lawyer. “We have looked after your affairs just as we did 
for your dear father. We were so glad Jean did not contest 
the will. I hope the Trust Company has sent you your 
income regularly ? ” 

“Quite so,” answered Cornie brusquely. “But I am here 
on a different matter. I want to secure a divorce! ” 

“We were q*ust discussing the prevalence of the germ on 
both sides of the Atlantic. The holy bonds of matrimony 
must have proved irksome,” the lawyer ventured. 

“Holy! I want you to find a hole big enough for me to 
crawl through to my liberty,” ordered Cornie. 

“What grounds have you ? ” the attorney asked. 

“Here! ” Cornie handed him the letter that Clare had 


194 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


195 


written to Jean on their engagement and the latter’s reply 
which he had carefully kept for this very emergency. 

The lawyer read them over slowly, “They seem pretty 
strong,” he remarked judicially; “Will she contest the suit? ” 

“No,” Cornie snapped, “she will not, I am positive.” 

“What have you to support these letters? They are not 
enough, alone.” 

“What would you say, if I told you that my wife has 
gone to live with my brother at his place in the Catskills ? ” 

The lawyer smiled with satisfaction. “More than enough,” 
he stated. “Have a couple of detectives go up there on some 
pretext and get the evidence. You will have to prove 
adultery—that is, opportunity for it. As soon as we get their 
report we will proceed without delay. As your residence is 
in Hoboken we will have to start suit in the New Jersey 
courts. Leave it to us.” 

“How long will it take? ” asked Cornie. 

“About four months,” was the answer, “if there is no 
contest.” 

“Please hurry it all you can,” Cornie instructed him. 

“Contemplating another sortie into the field ? ” the lawyer 
asked; and added, “I suppose it is hard for a wealthy young 
man like yourself to withstand female wiles.” 

“Well, I don’t know as that is very flattering. I really 
didn’t steal my wife, but I am willing to give her away. To 
be frank with you, I am tired of looking at her. My love 
died when I first read her letter. I knew she had only mar¬ 
ried me for her own pleasure and what I could give her, so 
I took all that I wanted from her, made her my Love Toy. 
Now, I have played enough with her and I seek a new toy.” 

From the office of his attorney, Cornie went to a well- 
known firm of detectives and engaged them to get the 
necessary evidence. 

During the next few months, he was constantly seen with 
Meta Murray, but was very careful to avoid meeting her 


196 


SOUL TOYS 


brother when he was with her. They were still friendly, but 
ever since the affair in Paris, which led to Clare leaving Cor- 
nie, there had ben a coldness between the hitherto warm 
friends. Clay felt that Cornie had not treated Clare as he 
should have done, and Cornie knew that Clay would object 
to his paying court to Meta. 

Meta was in her glory. Her pretty features seemed to be 
accentuated into a positive beauty by the glow of joy and 
love that had come over them. She had always cared for 
Cornie and felt that she would give anything in the world 
to be his wife. She was sure that Clare was to blame. She 
knew it could not have been Cornie’s fault; and when he 
showed her the letter to Jean, and told her that Clare had 
gone to the latter, she loved Cornie more than ever, and 
pitied him for having been duped by Clare. Women are 
ever ready to believe their loved ones blameless, especially 
if there is another woman in the case. 

Meta’s attitude toward Cornie was entirely different from 
Clare’s. Meta mothered him, petted him, and accepted his 
attention with profuse thanks and appreciation, as if every¬ 
thing he did for her was unexpected and a surprise. Clare 
acted as if she were only receiving her due, like the accept¬ 
ance of favors from a vassal. She was the queen, he her 
attendant. While Meta felt Cornie was her king and she 
his faithful subject, her manner was not cringing, but digni¬ 
fied and almost Victorian—she was the queen-mother. Cornie 
did not feel as free with her as he had with Clare, but he 
respected her more. 

“What do you see in me, Cornie ? ” she teased coquettishly 
as they were driving to the Woodmanstan Inn for dinner, 
one evening before his divorce case came on to be heard. 

“What does the sinner see in the saint? The little man 
in the big woman ? The statuesque queen in the insignificant 
runt, who has to stand on a chair to kiss her ? ” 

Meta laughed at his quaint reply and he went on gaily: 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


197 


“The society butterfly marries the home-loving book worm, 
and the famous beauty, the clown, while the dainty bit of 
bisque takes the cave man, the bull type; and the homely 
female cops the handsome manly fellow.” 

“Under which caption do we come?” she pressed inno¬ 
cently. 

“If we could only see ourselves as others see us! ” 

“Well, how do you see us? ” she quizzed. 

“You have the dignity of a Joan of Arc,—and I—the de¬ 
meanor of a Nero! ” he added dejectedly. 

“You are mixing your history,” she criticized. 

“My decision has been given! ” 

“You have elected yourself the judge and jury of our 
characters,” she objected strenuously. 

“Well, what comparison do you think fits our case?” 

“You are a citadel, ever strong—I am a snow-fort, ready 
to be melted by the sunshine of your love,” she replied 
poetically. 

“Well put,” he said, as he began to sing: 

“The moon never beams, 

Without bringing me dreams 
Of my beautiful Annabel Lee.” 

“Who is she, another beautiful creature? ” peevishly Meta 
sought to discover a rival. 

“Only another name for your own sweet self,” he replied, 
as he kissed her. 

“You big baby! ” she laughingly called him as she returned 
his embrace. 

Meta, with unerring intuition, continued to play on the 
one chord in Cornie’s nature that had never been touched. 
He did not know how it felt to be mothered, and had never 
lost his child-heart. His own mother having been taken from 
him when he was only a little fellow, he could not recall her 
affection, and there was no one who had ever taken her 


198 


SOUL TOYS 


place. So it was a new experience, to be again the little boy, 
and there was in his passion for Meta a devotion that mother¬ 
hood requires, whether the crown be real or adopted. 

She was inexhaustively versatile and constantly thought of 
new ways to pet and pamper him. 

“Do you really love me, Meta?” he asked seriously. 

“It is as futile to ask a blind man the road, or a mother if 
she cares for her child; for I have always loved you, Cornie, 
since I first met you. The heavens may be measured, the 
earth surveyed, but the depths of my love can never be de¬ 
termined,” she breathed softly. 

“I am not deserving of such affection,” he protested 
soberly. 

It was a new feeling for him to be humble and apprecia¬ 
tive, but she so affected him. 

“I have always worshipped the brazen calf of self,” he 
bitterly flayed himself; “from now on, to make you happy, 
shall be my one purpose in life.” 

They were at the summit of their emotions and Clare was 
forgotten by both. 


CHAPTER XXI 


“I wish you could defend Cornie’s case and get the decree 
yourself. I hate to feel that the record will show that you 
were the guilty party. He certainly proves himself to be a 
cad by taking such an unfair advantage,” Jean complained 
to Clare after she had received notice of the suit against her. 

“You know I cannot appear in the action, it would be 
suicidal to do so. This way there will be little publicity, and 
no details need be known. I do not want a penny of his 
money, and what do we care what the gossips say? ” 

“Only you and I and little Keats matter,” he murmured. 
“Oh, that I could give you both everything; but my father 
saw to it that I was bound to earth, hand and foot.” 

“Perhaps it is better so. We can plan together,” she 
rejoined. 

Occasionally Rabbi Felsnik and Enoch Glynn would come 
up for a few days, and on one of their visits, Jean’s Aunt 
Mary was also present. The conversation turned naturally 
to divorce. 

“If people considered the effect of their actions before 
leaping, there would not be so many hasty marriages, and 
few divorces. You know what Jesus said: ‘What therefore 
God hath joined together, let no man put asunder/ It is still 
the Law, and my Church abides by it faithfully,” declared 
Mother Justine proudly. 

“The trouble is, my dear Mother, that God has little to do 
with the making of most of our modern marriages. Design¬ 
ing mothers, vamping girls, and passion-clogged men are the 
cause of many of the joinders,” observed Glynn. “If love 
ruled, such would not be the case,” he added. 

“What we call love is often inspired by ulterior motives; 


199 


200 


SOUL TOYS 


and when the latter disappear, the former dies,” injected the 
Rabbi. “When love has flown, is it not wrong for man and 
wife to ignore this fact and go on—continue to live a dead 
romance ? ” 

“Our divorce system is making America the laughing 
stock of the world. It is poisoning our national life at its 
very source,” asserted the Nun. “The only antidote is in¬ 
creased moral instruction. We must impress on our chil¬ 
dren and young people that marriage is a sacrament, and not 
a contract, or a thing to be terminated at individual caprice. 
The Church must give the necessary instruction plainly and 
firmly, both in the Sunday schools, as we do in the parochial 
schools, and to the parents from the pulpit.” 

“There are many more courts in this country with power 
to grant divorces than there are in all the rest of the world; 
and there are a number of places where the divorces actually 
exceed the marriages,” Glynn informed them. 

“Do you not think that the great trouble lies in our too 
ready acceptance of a change as a remedy for married folks’ 
troubles, rather than the exercise of self-control and mutual 
forbearance? We need moral discipline in the home,” was 
the Nun’s assurance. 

“We must recognize that there are causes for divorce. 
Even the Catholic Church allows it for adultery,” was Jean’s 
admonition. 

“There is no question,” continued the Nun, “that the great 
majority of cases could be avoided, and husbands and wives 

reconciled, if they were only imbued with patience, forbear- 

» 

ance, and mutual tolerance.” 

“Isn’t the irreligious attitude of the new generation one of 
the reasons for the increase of divorces ? ” inquired Glynn. 

“No,” answered the Rabbi, “I deny that the young people 
are irreligious! Fifty years ago they were more amenable 
to the teachings of their fathers than to-day, because they 
were more sober and given to serious consideration. To-day, 


MOUNTAINS OF LOVE 


201 


they must be approached in the spirit of the age. We try to 
administer the same medicine that was given to the past gen¬ 
eration. Give them what they want. Religion never grows 
out of date, but it must be served in modern dress, just as 
the young never tire of dancing, but the minuet and square 
dance have been discarded as too slow and old-fashioned. 
Religion must be as up to date as dancing; and they are 
not incompatible either, for life is not all serious.” 
zClare had listened attentively to this discussion and felt 
as if she were on the rack, being torn to pieces by these 
inquisitors of the human relations. 

“Take my case! ” She brought them to the concrete in¬ 
stance. “Should I have remained with Cornie when he 
treated me as his Love Toy? I was really not his wife.” 

“But you should have considered what it meant, before 
you took your vows. ‘For better or for worse/ ” the Nun 
told her. 

“Then I suppose I should always suffer. He wouldn’t . 
have children—now I never can—did I have to crucify my¬ 
self ? ” she questioned with acid-like distinctness. 

“I do not doubt that Cornie was a great deal to blame 
for your unhappiness, but you should have tried to overcome 
his erring ways,” the Nun retorted sharply. 

“Can you change a beast into a man? He didn’t have a 
decent thought. Beauty! Beauty! That was all I heard! ” 
she cried. 

“Beauty is akin to Love,” Glynn contributed. 

“There is no sanctity, no beauty, in a union which has be¬ 
come a marriage of hate! ” Clare exclaimed. 

“The point is, my dear, you should not have married him 
if you did not love him. Wealth and pleasure will never 
suffice for affection,” Jean’s aunt asserted. 

“But having made a mistake, must she therefore suffer 
forever?” queried the Rabbi. “A just God forgives, par¬ 
dons. Shall we be less merciful?” 


202 


SOUL TOYS 


“We must suffer for our wrong-doing,” the Nun insisted. 

“Desperate cases require desperate remedies,” said Jean. 
“I do not blame Clare. She thought she loved Cornie. He 
proved that he was unworthy of her love. I love her, I hope 
I may prove myself worthy of it. As soon as her divorce 
is granted we will be married, notwithstanding the Church.” 

“Love overcomes all,” Glynn muttered to himself. “It is 
wonderful.” 

Cornie’s lawyers kept the details of the hearing from the 
newspapers, as there was no contest, and the decree was 
granted to Cornie for infidelity. Therefore, he could still 
remain a member of his Church. 

Shortly thereafter Clare and Jean were quietly married, 
and life once again took on its peaceful ways for them. 
To be a good wife to Jean and a mother to Keats, was Clare’s 
only aim. She missed her butterfly existence, but gloried in 
her love for Jean and the little one. She finally had found 
a real haven in the Mountains of Love with Jean. 



Part VII 


SHIFTING WINDS 



CHAPTER XXII 


The winds of Life blow strange courses. The hot East 
Wind of Passion, of Hate, carries lives into the divorce 
courts, and the brisk West Wind takes them back again 
on to the Seas of Pleasure and finally to the Mountains of 
Love. Shifting Winds—hurling men from the laps of wives 
to the embraces of mistresses—to the arms of virgins! 

Clay was out of the city when Cornie called Eddie Phil- 
brick and Jim Vanduyne, and told them that he was going to 
marry Meta, early the next morning. They hurried over to 
greet him. 

“Marry in haste, repent at leisure, you know,” said Jim 
judiciously. 

“We will have to make a night of it, to celebrate your 
intended lapse from single blessedness,” Eddie suggested. 

“Here’s to Clay’s new brother-in-law! ” Jim toasted Cor¬ 
nie with some fine old wine from the latter’s well-stocked 
cellar. 

“Let’s take in some of the old joints, and see how they are 
behaving in these Prohibition days,” Cornie proposed. 

It is a curious fact, in Prohibition times, that with their 
own cellars full, people must still hunt for and drink ques¬ 
tionable liquors. There is a certain attraction about getting 
them in a clandestine way, that seems to warrant the taking 
of chances. 

It was after midnight when they arrived at a place that 
used, in former days, to be in the midst of a bachanalian revel 
at that hour. Only a dozen people were seated at the tables. 
At one, a lone pleasure seeker sat in a deep fuddle, trying to 
consume a steaming plate of soup with a fork. He was 
muttering about Bimini, where he probably thought he was 
still visiting. 


205 


206 


SOUL TOYS 


A girl in a tomato-colored gown stood up at another table 
and shouted: “Who’ll have a Horton?” referring to the 
brand of ice cream sold at the Polo Grounds. 

People openly had bottles on their tables. Fresh supplies 
were secured by whispered consultation with the waiter, after 
which a messenger would appear with a package. 

The jazz band played and several couples staggered on to 
the dance floor where they wriggled and gyrated about. 
Kissing your partner seemed part of the dance, but occa¬ 
sionally an obstreperous male would lean over and kiss some 
one else’s partner. 

A girl fell over a table, amid shouts of laughter. They 
picked her up, and when she was found unhurt, carried her 
around the room on their shoulders. She was their heroine, 
and her bobbed hair moved up and down. Several loud 
quarrels and arguments were in progress. 

No one looked at the bottles, to see what they were im¬ 
bibing. They consumed the contents without question. 

Cornie and his crowd soon acquired some female compan¬ 
ions, and the messengers were kept busy carrying liquid re¬ 
freshments to them. 

“Prohibition is certainly awful,” said one of the girls; “I 
have to drink more than I ever did.” 

“The high cost of drinking is terrible,” was Eddie’s com¬ 
plaint. 

“We used to say: ‘Choose your poison! ’ Now it’s true,” 
remarked Jim. 

“We’ll go on to another place,” decreed Cornie. “This 
is geting too tame. There used to be a dandy Inn at West¬ 
chester. Let’s try it.” 

So they went where they could gamble as well as drink, 
and Cornie’s second ante-nuptial night was thus passed. 

After taking a shower and changing into his wedding 
clothes, Cornie said to Eddie, who was to be his best man, 
“It’s a lucky thing this ceremony is only recovery for me. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


207 


You fellows have put me in no condition to learn a new 
part; but even a dying mule has a kick up his leg,” he laughed 
feverishly. 

The marriage was a simple affair. Meta had Tillie Freer 
as her only attendant. As they were riding back after the 
ceremony, the latter said to Horto Leaman: “Cornie had the 
funniest expression on his face as he waited for Meta to get 
into the car.” 

Horto replied, “He has the soul of a Romeo and the face 
of a comic singer! I understand they are going to Palm 
Beach for the season.” 

“Yes, unless Clay stops them; they didn’t let him know 
until now. He is in Chicago. I wonder what he will say.” 

“Probably be delighted to have Cornie for a brother-in- 
law.” 

“I don’t think so. I believe Cornie knew he would object. 
He sided with Clare in their trouble.” 

They all went to the depot to see Cornie and Meta off for 
the South, but did not notice a tall, thin, foreign-appearing 
woman who boarded the same train. 

She was Lola Tuite, who had accompanied Cornie from 
Paris. Although earnest in his protestations of love to 
Meta, he had nevertheless frequently visited Lola in the tasty 
rooms that he had furnished for her in one of the new 
apartment houses on Riverside Drive. 

With her foreign accent and bizarre gowns she attracted 
some pretty big moths with wings of gold, but was very 
careful that Cornie should never meet them, and he thought 
he was the only frog in the pond as so many apartment 
keepers believe. 

She had a bee-like quality of constantly buzzing about her 
expenses, and succeeded in securing from Cornie several 
times the income that Jean received from his father’s estate. 
She also insisted upon having her own way, and when 
Cornie told her that he was going to Florida on his second 
wedding trip she decided at once that she would go also. 


208 


SOUL TOYS 


So he had to arrange for her as well as for his bride and 
himself. 

He planned to go to Palm Beach, and made reservations 
for himself at the Royal Poinciana and for his French mis¬ 
tress at the Palm Beach Hotel, in order to avoid complica¬ 
tions. He thought of the old toast, “To our wives and our 
mistresses—may they never meet! ” 

Lola was not greatly disturbed by his re-marriage, as she 
said to someone: “His wives may come and go, but I stay 
on forever.” 

“Yes,” her friend replied, “forever—until he meets your 
successor.” 

Many a man will hesitate longer about telling a mistress 
that he is through with her, than informing his wife that he 
is about to sue for a divorce. 

As the train speeded southward Meta petted and looked 
after Cornie like a baby, while he accepted her pampering 
like a spoiled child. 

Occasionally Lola would traverse the several cars that 
separated her from the newly-weds, and stand and watch 
them. 

“What does he see in her? A pretty little thing, but not 
chic at all. What a wife I would have made him! ” she 
brooded. 

Finally the trip ended, the train slipped into West Palm 
Beach, then crossed the long bridge over Lake Worth and 
drew up close to the Royal Poinciana. In one direction went 
Cornie and his bride, in the other, his mistress. So it always 
is in life; when the separation comes, one way goes the wife 
and with her husband, while the mistress must ever walk 
alone. 

“Don’t give us rooms a block away from the dining room,” 
Cornie growled at the clerk of the Poinciana, while 
Meta looked in the windows of the shops facing the lobby. 

“I have a fine suite on the second floor just over the 


SHIFTING WINDS 


209 


front entrance, that I think will please you,” was the suave 
answer. 

“Let us look at it—come Meta,” called Cornie. 

The rooms proved satisfactory, and after resting they came 
down, took a rolling chair to the beach, and went into the 
ocean for a dip. 

At noon they joined the merry throng that always gathers 
during the season on The Breakers’ porch, “to see” and “be 
seen.” They met many of their friends, and Meta made an 
engagement with a school-chum, with whom she had learned 
to play golf, to try the Country Club links. Cornie said he 
would walk over to the Palm Beach Hotel to see a friend. 

“I am so anxious to hear from Clay,” Meta said hesitat¬ 
ingly. “I feel I should have let him know that we were 
going to be married, instead of telegraphing just before the 
ceremony.” 

“I told you that your brother sided with Clare, and would 
have made a fuss if you had. Don’t you love me more than 
your brother ? ” 

“Of course! But my brother is very dear to me. I sent 
him a letter telling him all about it,” she continued. 

“You probably will not be pleased at the reply you will 
get from him—I know him pretty well.” 

A few days later a letter arrived. Meta read it to Cornie: 

“Dear Meta and Cornie: 

“It is useless for me to say I am hurt and disappointed. 
No doubt you knew I would strenuously object. Some of 
my friends I know too well to wish them to marry my sister. 
But it is too late now—all I can tell you is that I hope you 
will be happy. 

“To you, Cornie, I simply want to say that if I ever find 
out you have mistreated my sister, as you did a certain other 
lady, I will give you the most complete thrashing that any 
man ever received—and maybe I will not stop there, either! 

“You cannot expect me to welcome you back with open 


210 


SOUL TOYS 


arms, but at least we may preserve the outward civilities 
that our relationship requires. 

“Let me know when you get back. 

“Yours, 



“Well, not so bad at that,” Cornie commented. 

“Why does he blame you so? He ought to see now, by 
Clare’s marrying Jean, that your trouble was due to her 
fault.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “His threat was unnecessary. 
Very childish.” 

However, Cornie went to the Palm Beach Hotel and met 
his friend Lola, who was awaiting him on the wide veranda 
overlooking Lake Worth. She wore a flimsy gown, red 
with white polka-dots, and a big picture hat to match. 

“How are you located ? ” he asked. “Room satisfactory ?” 

“All O.K.,” she replied in the colloquial English that 
she had picked up. “You are going to take me to tea in the 
Poinciana Palm Garden,” she added. 

“All right,” he returned quickly, “let’s start right away.” 
He planned silently that he could take her and leave before 
his wife returned. 

“Oh, no, it is far too early. They do not gather until 
after five, I am told,” she objected, “but we will go to your 
hotel and take in the shops. They are magnificent, they say.” 

“Very well.” He visioned himself buying diamonds again, 
as he looked at her hands and wondered where she could 
possibly put another ring. “Unless,” he thought, “she puts 
it through her nose.” 

So to the shops of the New York modistes, milliners and 
jewelers they went, and after seeing to it that he opened 
accounts where she might purchase what her fancy dictated 
when alone, she selected a ring, a hat, and a few accessories. 

They then took a chair ride through the “Garden of Eden,” 


SHIFTING WINDS 


211 


admiring the magnificent palms and the overladen grapefruit 
and orange trees. 

“What a wonderful fragrance,” Lola cooed. 

“Orange blossoms,” Cornie explained. 

“Very appropriate for a honeymoon,” she teased. 

“It isn’t everyone would bring his sweetheart on his honey¬ 
moon,” he retorted. 

“And not every girl who would go, so there! ” 

“Well, I took you and you came, that ends it,” he shot 
out rather sharply. 

“Is my little one peeved that I should mention the rea¬ 
son that brought him here ? ” 

“Let’s talk of something else,” he returned. The conver¬ 
sation was distasteful to him. 

“The cocoanuts, look at them all about on the ground.” 

“We will turn here! ” he ordered the colored bicyclist who 
was propelling them. “I’m getting tired.” 

They returned to the Poinciana and entered the tea gar¬ 
den, where the guests were gathering to dance and sip, in 
the preteiest setting in America. The tall stately palms wav¬ 
ing gently in the breeze; the vari-colored lights intermingled 
with tropical plants; the tables heaped with red Hibiscus; the 
gardens all about, glowing with their bright colored blos¬ 
soms—made a perfect Paradise. The dancers in their light 
clothes, the ladies in bright colors, the men in white, a most 
picturesque group, completed the wonderful picture. Lola 
and Cornie joined in the dances and the time passed quickly. 

Meta returned from the golf links, bade her friend good¬ 
bye, and walked out on the extension of the veranda that 
over-looked the tea garden. There were several groups seated 
by the rail watching the scene below. 

Meta stopped alongside a little crowd unknown to her, and 
resting her arms on the railing looked down at those seated 
at the tea tables, the jazz band having just stopped playing. 

A lady near her pointed out a couple at a table in their 


212 


SOUL TOYS 


direct line of vision, and Meta heard her say: “That’s Cor¬ 
nelius Wildner! ” 

“Which one ? ” another asked. 

“The third table from the dance floor—he is that par¬ 
ticularly well-groomed and spruce looking man. He is here 
on his second honeymoon,” the first speaker said. 

“Is that queer-looking woman with him his new wife?” 
a gentleman asked. 

“I should say not. She is a very ordinary looking person, 
I am told. Rather pretty, they say, but not a beauty like the 
first Mrs. Wildner.” 

“Would she always be talked about as the second Mrs. 
Wildner ? ” Meta thought. She could not help being an eaves¬ 
dropper. 

“I guess that’s his lady friend,” another man ventured. 
“I heard to-day he has her at the Breakers—or is it the 
Palm Beach ? ” 

The tabbies have here found their place in the sun! The 
past, present, and future history of every one at Palm Beach 
may be learned without the assistance of a clairvoyant or 
palmist. More family skeletons are dragged forth each 
morning to make a gossip feast than at any other resort 
in the whole country! 

With a sudden determination, Meta rushed to the stair¬ 
way as the little group turned and looked at her. She felt 
like a child, afraid of the dark, yet pushing blindly through 
it, trying to reach the light beyond. 

“What happened to that plain creature ? ” one lady won¬ 
dered aloud. 

Reaching the foot of the stairs she crossed through the 
garden to the red-arched entrance; explaining to the gate¬ 
keeper that she was joining her husband, she crossed directly 
to his table. He arose as she approached. “Meta,” he said, 
“this is Miss Tuite, a friend of mine from Paris. My wife, 
Lola.” 


SHIFTING WINDS 


213 


“That woman who stood here was his wife, and she has 
gone down to meet his mistress! What an unusual situa¬ 
tion! ” one of the Madam Grundys exclaimed above. 

“Did you enjoy your game?” asked Cornie nonchalantly. 

“Very much, thank you,” she replied lightly. “When did 
you arrive, Miss Tuite?” 

“But this morning, Madam,” she answered, and then bit 
her lips in vexation as she thought how foolish to admit 
that she had come on the same train with them. 

“Indeed! It is strange you did not meet on the train— 
perhaps you did ? ” she half questioned and half decided. 

Her husband scowled but did not answer. As if in reply 
to his unexpressed prayer that this strange meeting might 
be terminated in some way, a bell-boy paged him. He was 
wanted at the telephone. 

Hurriedly excusing himself, he had to leave Meta and 
Lola together. 

So the wife faced the mistress, almost on her wedding 
day! And she did not hesitate to open the conversation. 
“How long has this affair been going on ? ” she asked curtly 
and rather imperiously. 

“Over a year, since I met Cornie in Paris on his first 
honeymoon,” Lola admitted a little sarcastically. 

“Did you ever meet the first Mrs. Wildner?” 

“Most certainly—I was present at their final argument.” 

“Were you one of the causes of the estrangement? ” 

“How should I know! ” was the laconic reply. 

“You were there, you said,” Meta reminded her. 

“Yes, but much was said, many points of difference; they 
were incompatible.” 

“You must realize how I feel, to know that I must share 
my husband with another,” said Meta, with a tenseness she 
could not conceal. 

“In France we understand such situations; it is accepted— 
one must make the best of it. II faut prendre les homines 
comme ils sont, et les choses comme elles viennent” 


214 


SOUL TOYS 


“Do you love Cornie ? ” 

“I cannot say. I like him—yes—very much. He is so 
generous, so liberal, but he is homely, even ugly, and I love 
handsome men! He has a personality though, Madam, a 
winning way. I am satisfied with him. The time will come 
when he will tire of me; then it will be someone else; so why 
should we quarrel? Madam will not try to make him give 
me up! ” she whined. 

“Very true,” replied Meta, vanquishing the other woman’s 
fears as the idea came to her to make the latter an ally, to 
help her hold her husband, rather than an enemy. She 
would not let her elude her grasp. 

“Let us be friends,” she responded to the bold half¬ 
warning, half-cry. “We are sisters-in-love, we both care 
for Cornie.” Then to herself: “Although your affection 
is only as deep as his pocket book.” 

“Agreed! Madam is indeed sensible. When you want 
your husband, and he is with me, I will send him to you.” 

“I will be glad to compensate you for your assistance,” 
Meta could not withhold this unkind thrust. 

Lola drew herself up with dignity: “Thank you, I could 
not accept anything from you. I offered my aid because I 
wanted to help you.” 

“Pardon me, if I misunderstood,” Meta accepted the re¬ 
buke. 

They arose before Cornie returned, Lola taking a chair to 
her hotel, while Meta went upstairs to her room. 

She threw herself on the bed, exhausted from this strange 
encounter. Cornie came in. “I looked in the Palm Garden, 
did not find you, so knew you were here,” he remarked 
carelessly, and continued, “Tom Lenane called me from 
Miami Beach. He is at the Flamingo. I do not know 
whether you ever met him. He is vice-president of the 
trust company that attends to my business. He invited us 
to lunch to-morrow noon. I told him we would drive over 


SHIFTING WINDS 


215 


as our car will be here by then.” He ignored the afternoon’s 
unusual situation and proceeded to dress for dinner. 

“You better get started or you will never get done,” he 
urged, in his experience with the time necessary to complete 
milady’s toilet. 

Meta slipped into a midnight blue evening gown with 
silver overdrape and looked radiant. The excitement of the 
tea garden affair had given her a deep flush which was most 
becoming. They had dinner and then strolled about the long 
porches listening to the delightful outdoor concert. 

Meta’s mind was busily trying to plan her course of ac¬ 
tion as to Lola. Her nature abhorred an acceptance of the 
situation, but she faced the brutal truth unflinchingly. “Cor- 
nie apparently was not a one-woman man,” was the way 
she took stock of the situation. 

“Was it her duty to set herself up as a moral guidepost for 
him? If she pretended an understanding sympathy with 
his moods, she might draw him away from Lola. If she 
made the affair a gage of battle, what might the ending be? 
She would make him feel that he did not have to hide his 
affaires du coeur but could freely confide in her; thus would 
she become the one permanent, unchangeable thing in his 
life, while the others could come and go. It would be hard, 
but the mother role must be her cue, was her silent determi¬ 
nation. She would make him the repentant erring child. 
Thus she might hold him. The halo of romance had already 
disappeared, the noonday glare of her resolution to keep 
him at all costs, replaced the lesser light. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Later in the evening Cornie and Meta walked over to Brad¬ 
ley’s, the fashionable gambling club, and joined the re¬ 
splendent throng about the tables. Cornie said, as he seated 
himself at a roulette table, “Do you remember how you 
brought me luck at Monte Carlo ? ” 

“Yes, and I will here again. Play the single ‘O’, it will 
come! ” And it did. “Now number seven.” There seemed 
to be a strange unity between Meta’s mind and the little 
ivory ball that brought a huge stack of chips before Cornie, 
until she glanced across the room and saw her companion of 
the afternoon, arrayed in a jade green creation, waving an 
enormous feather fan and literally shining with jewels. She 
was as languorous, as insinuating as the scent of magnolia 
blooms! From that moment Cornie started to lose, Meta’s 
suggestions always failed, until she insisted that he cash in 
and stop for awhile or go to a hazard table. As he was 
waiting for his money, Lola saw them and immediately 
picked her way through the crowd to them. The large cir¬ 
cular room with its high-domed ceiling studded with electric 
brilliants; its soft carpets and green tables, was a fit 
setting for the French Bird of Paradise. 

“What luck ? ” she asked without hesitation. 

“I have been doing very well until now,” Cornie answered. 
The Madame Grundys were soon busy wagging their 
tongues over this choice morsel of scandal. The men en¬ 
joyed the unique situation of Wildner strolling about with 
his wife on one arm and his mistress on the other, but he 
did not seem to realize the strangeness of his action. 

Meta heard one man say, “He is untameable! ” 

How she came through the awful evening, she did not 


216 


SHIFTING WINDS 


217 


know; but after retiring, she concluded on a plan of action. 
Immediate activity seemed absolutely necessary to her. 

The next morning she took a chair to the Palm Beach 
Hotel and asked for Miss Tuite. Meta could not believe 
her eyes as Lola came forward. Her glossy black hair hung 
in a long braid down her back; a simple gingham frock was 
her attire. She looked like a girl of sixteen. 

“Why—why,” Meta stammered, “how—how young you 
look! ” 

“Thank you, Madam; we women are only as old as we 
dress.” She chuckled as she made the remark. 

“Boy! ” she called aloud, “get me a box of Turkish ciga¬ 
rettes,” and to Meta, “Let us go out on the porch, it is 
cooler.” 

Lake Worth, with its Venetian-like blueness and the dis¬ 
tant shore line, lay before them. Graceful yachts were scat¬ 
tered over the water like huge white seagulls resting and sun¬ 
ning themselves. Meta did not see the beautiful scene, as 
she pondered how to say what she had in mind. 

“You must realize, it is impossible for you to stay here,” 
she commenced, abruptly. 

“But, why? I do not mind.” 

“No, your position is different; you must see, that to me 
it is a degradation, to you it is a raising. Our places are 
not the same; ” she framed her answer carefully but boldly. 

“You are right, Madam;” Lola quickly sensed that she 
must not antagonize this woman; “what do you suggest? ” 

“We are going to Miami to-morrow. We will take you 
there. Cornie can see you when he wishes, it is not far, but 
we will not again meet as last night.” She set forth her 
plan with such assurance that Lola saw resistance was use¬ 
less. 

“Agreed! I will pack and I will tell Cornie, ‘it is my 
wish to go to Miami/ Will that please madam ? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” answered Meta as she impetuously took 
Lola’s hand. “I must go now. Good-bye! ” 


218 


SOUL TOYS 


She returned to the Poinciana and made no mention to 
Cornie of her visit. 

Later in the day he asked if she would object to Lola’s 
accompanying them to Miami, where she was going to stay. 

Of course she acquiesced, and when they left the next day, 
they stopped for Lola, who was profuse in her expression 
of delight at the prospect of the pleasant drive. 

On the way, Cornie suggested that Lola might prefer the 
Royal Palm Hotel in Miami proper, to the Flamingo at 
Miami Beach, saying that he had always stopped at the 
former place. His real reason, of course, was to get rid of 
her for the day. She readily agreed and they drove her to 
that hotel. 

While Cornie went to the desk to secure a room, Meta 
walked with Lola through the corridor to the rear porches 
and admired the magnificent vista, the wonderfully beautiful 
tropical garden which extended from the hotel to the water. 
Tall palms swayed gently and bright flowers added a touch 
of color, while the beautiful Bay of Biscayne, with its blue 
waters, finished the gorgeous scene. 

The beauty of nature seemed to make Lola talkative. “My 
dear,” she said as she put her hand on Meta’s arm, “I am 
really not a bad woman. I am a good Catholic. I never 
miss mass or confession. My life is my profession. Please 
don’t think too hard of me. I don’t steal anything.” 

“Only other women’s husbands! ” thought Meta, but this 
confidence gave her an idea which she was quick to put to 
use. 

“Did you know that Cornie’s Aunt Mary is a nun, Mother 
Superior of an Academy ? ” 

“No, is it possible, I should love to meet the good woman.” 

“You shall,” Meta rejoined joyfully, “as soon as we get 
back to New York.” 

That was her hope: that she would express just that de¬ 
sire, and perhaps the nun might influence her to give up her 
nephew. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


219 


Cornie came up to them and said that Lola was to follow 
the boy to her room, and that he was ready to go on to the 
Beach. Meta nodded to Lola, quite pleasantly, as she left 

her. 

A New York acquaintance greeted them as they were 
crossing the lobby, and Cornie asked if he wouldn’t like to 
ride to the Beach with them. He said he would be delighted, 
as he was going to play golf on the Flamingo course. 

Driving across the Bay of Biscayne, over the wonderful 
causeway connecting Miami proper with Miami Beach, 
they were astounded at the new islands that were springing 
up, star shaped, circular, and otherwise. Their companion, 
who was a great Miami booster, explained that, “You could 
have an island built to your order in a few months’ time. It 
seems the water is shallow, and so they fence in the desired 
size and shape, pump out the water, then fill in with earth. 
Later they plant full-sized palm trees: a mansion goes up, 
and before you know it you have a full-grown island home! ” 

“It is wonderful what they do here,” marvelled Cornie; 
“and look at the finest yachts in America! ” He pointed to 
several large ones moored in the bay. 

Proceeding along the wide road, through an avenue of 
palms and bright colored Hibiscus, they turned in at the new 
Flamingo Hotel which rises from the edge of the Bay, a 
great yellow mass. 

Mr. Lenane, their host, met them and said they would 
have time to drive over to Fisher’s Beach and take a dip in 
the ocean before lunch. 

They went back to their car and drove through tropical 
foliage to the beach, meeting many friends there and re¬ 
turning to the hotel greatly refreshed. 

After lunch they walked down to the dock and looked at 
an aeroplane tied there. “I wish we could fly back! ” Meta 
exclaimed. 

“Where is the pilot? I’ll see if we can,” Cornie replied. 


220 


SOUL TOYS 


Arrangements were completed, and later in the afternoon 
they flew back to Palm Beach. As they rose high in the air 
they could see through the shallow water and the bay looked 
like a series of light and dark spots. They followed the 
shore line over the ocean to Lake Worth and circled over 
Palm Beach. 

“How narrow it is! ” said Meta as she looked down 
at the narrow strip of land between Lake Worth and the 
ocean. 

“Someone has described it as ‘six weeks long, half a mile 
wide, and as high as you care to pay/ ” Cornie explained as 
the pilot skillfully landed them at the Poinciana dock. 

The days slipped by quickly. In the morning they would 
go deep sea fishing or golfing when energetically inclined, 
arranging to be at the beach by eleven o’clock for their 
daily surf and sun bath. Here lolling beneath the sun¬ 
shades are matrons dressed, not for bathing, but for the 
“Golden Horseshoe” at the Metropolitan Opera. They dis¬ 
cuss the good and bad points of the debutantes, who are the 
only ones brave enough to withstand the onslaughts of the 
ocean waves. From the beach every one goes to the Break¬ 
ers’ porch for the noon-day assemblage and dance. Meta and 
Cornie always lunched at one of the cottages and the former 
would then rest or play bridge while Cornie played golf or 
tennis, until it was time for the the dansant in the Cocoanut 
Grove, the tea-garden fairyland. 

In these hectic days Meta forgot all about Lola, Clare, and 
all the rest about whom she had worried, in fact the hum¬ 
drum world seemed very far away. She knew that the sev¬ 
eral times when Cornie said he was going deep-sea fishing 
down to the Keys for a couple of days, he was undoubtedly at 
Miami with Lola, but they never mentioned that lady. 

“I just love this afro-mobiling!” Meta said, as they stepped 
into a rolling chair with a colored attendant behind, and 
went for a moonlight ride, going finally to the Everglades 


SHIFTING WINDS 


221 


Club, where they had been invited to a dance, and from the 
Club to a cottage where they continued to dance until day¬ 
break. Then all the guests donned bathing suits and in¬ 
dulged in a dip in the surf, just as the tropical sun was 
coming up over the horizon. 

Another evening they were at the Beach Club, as Brad¬ 
ley’s is also called, where, after dinner, they followed the 
crowd to the famous back room. Meta asked one of the 
overseers of the play, suave, detective-like men, who see that 
the tables are supplied with sufficient money and guard the 
guests’ jewels, “What do you hting is the value of the jewels 
that the ladies here are wearing to-night ? ” 

“It has been estimated that they are worth one hundred 
million dollars,” he smilingly answered. 

“One hundred million! ” she repeated. “And children 
starving—not only in Europe, but in this country, too! ” 

At last the great Washington’s Birthday ball arrived, the 
crowning event of the Palm Beach season. Decorators were 
brought from New York to convert the ballroom of the 
Poinciana into a wonderland. The theme carried out in 
the decorations was Peace. Rising from a great bronze 
standard in the ballroom was a plaque with the inscription 
“Pax.” Trellises and arbors, flower-decked, and panels 
bearing the seals of the allied nations were part of the 
decorations. A gloria of international flags had a prominent 
place. At the end of the dining room, a great painting show¬ 
ing Mount Vernon in the distance, was imbedded in a bor¬ 
der of tropical ferns and palms. 

“This grand march is an event never to be forgotten,” 
Meta declared, as they waited to take their place in it. 

“I am the champion prize-forgetter, you know,” Cornie 
bantered. 

“Well, I will not let you forget me, I assure you,” she 
came back. 

After the big ball they left for Ormond, where they en- 


222 


SOUL TOYS 


joyed motoring along the wide beach, then on to St. Au¬ 
gustine to the great Ponce de Leon Hotel. 

Here Meta noticed that Cornie talked frequently with a 
beautiful, statuesque, Juno-like brunette, whom he never 
brought over to introduce. 

Finally she asked him, “Who was the lady you were 
talking to this morning, when I went back to the room ? ” 

“A girl I knew in New York,” was all he said. 

She did not press her inquiry, but later found out that the 
woman in question was none other than the famous Chris¬ 
tine Ives, of the Ziegfield Follies. 

“If I get rid of the Frenchwoman, will the Follies girl 
succeed her ? ” she wondered. 

They intended staying only a few days, but Cornie strung 
out the visit for two weeks and Meta was convinced that 
the dark-haired beauty was the cause. 

One day she said to him, “What attracts you to that girl? 
Is she a brilliant conversationalist, or is it her good looks 
alone? ” 

“She can't talk at all,” Cornie laughingly responded. “I 
think her brain is a blank. But what a figure—what a face 1 ” 

“Tell me about her, Cornie! ” Meta had made up her 
mind that, hard as it was for her, she would continue to play 
her role of confidante to her husband in his amours . 

“You know that Beauty is my god,” he explained. “I wor¬ 
ship it. Don’t be offended, Meta; you are a good scout to 
listen to me; your appeal to me is different from Chris¬ 
tine’s—yes or Clare’s—or Lola’s.” 

“Wives and mistresses, he classes them all together! ” 
was Meta’s first bitter thought. 

“They all appealed to my love of Beauty; different types, 
but each satisfied me for only a time. My cravings, my 
senses, demanded them all. You are not like them, that is 
why I can talk to you like this.” 

“Christine has a wonderful figure,” she probed deeply. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


223 


“I have her pose for me, as I did Clare and Lola. They 
were all like models to me—food for my love of Beauty/’ 
he boasted. “You know now and then I do a little sculptur- 

• yy 

mg. 

“Food for your sensuous passions! ” Meta silently cor¬ 
rected him. “I wish I could satisfy you,” she pleaded aloud. 
“If I only knew how!” 

“Impossible, my darling,” he asserted presumptuously; 
“only be sensible, overlook my failings, and we shall continue 
to be happy.” 

At that moment a wonderful inspiration came to her: 
“If they had a child—that might hold him! Their own 
beautiful child—that was the solution! ” 

She quietly told him what was in her mind. 

“I do not want children! ” he snapped. “Not until we are 
older, at any rate. I am not a believer in the creed that 
measures your patriotism by the size of your family,” he 
sneered. 

“But Cornie, we would be so happy! ” And when he re¬ 
plied, “Meta, if I ever had children, I would want you to 
be their mother,” she felt she had won the victory—and 
she had, as he added: “Your wishes may overcome mine, 
your happiness is all I seek.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Back in New York, taking up the round of social affairs, 
Meta forgot her husband’s mistresses, until Lola called her 
by telephone. 

“You promised to take me to see Cornie’s aunt, the good 
nun. Will you please do so?” she begged. 

“Of course I will. I’ll see her to-day and arrange for you 
to visit her.” 

That very afternoon found Meta at St. Mary’s Academy, 
where she poured out to the nun her hopes and fears, and 
whispered of the little one that was coming, and how she 
wanted the father free from his entanglement with the 
Frenchwoman before its arrival. 

The World Mother promised the expectant mother that 
she would use her best efforts in the latter’s behalf. Meta re¬ 
ported to Lola that she could call on the nun the following 
morning. 

“It will be such a pleasure to meet the holy lady,” she 
answered; “I feel a need to be shrived by her.” 

Bearing no mark of her profession, attired entirely in dull 
black, Lola arrived at the Academy and asked for Mother 
Justine. Like a penitent, she humbly entered the presence 
of the sweet-faced nun, kneeling and kissing her hand in 
abject humility. 

“Arise, my child,” the nun said. “Meta told me you 
wanted to see me.” 

“It was presumptuous of so miserable a sinner as I.” 

“God’s servants are also at the service of his humblest sin¬ 
ner,” spoke the black-robed lady of the Church, giving the 
index to the soul that was forever voyaging on the heights, 
and still could see the depths. 


224 


SHIFTING WINDS 


225 


“I am burning my life away for others, who care for me 
only as the plaything of the moment,” the sombre-gowned 
woman of the world confessed bitterly. 

“One who has no faith in others, shall find no faith in 
them,” was the reply. “He who overcomes others, shows 
he has strength; but he who overpowers himself, is mightier 
still,” she supplemented. 

With her deep insight into human failings and frailities, 
the Nun drew out the sordid story of the prostitute, laid bare 
the lax moral code of her early environment, and the under¬ 
lying religious feeling. It was like urging forth the tiny 
sprout from the seed. She watered it with kindness, nur¬ 
tured it with understanding. 

At last the French woman broke down and sobbed 
her shame and repentance. It was the Nun’s explanation of 
the wrong that she was doing Meta, that led finally to her 
promise to give up Cornie and try to live a respectable life. 
Gently the Nun suggested that sewing would provide a live¬ 
lihood, and agreed to send her customers. 

“I did not intend to do wrong,” sobbed the Magdalene. 
“It was the easy way that seemed rose-hued, and the necessity 
of earning my own living.” 

“My dear,” consoled the Nun, “you have the same 
deeply religious spirit that I have, that is the central clue 
to both our beings. I had the opportunity to express my 
true self, you were denied that chance, and a false self took 
hold of you. The former did not die, it lived within you, try¬ 
ing to fight its way out, but the latter held the fort. The 
balance wheel between right and wrong is very fragile. But 
now, you have conquered. God bless you! ” she concluded, 
with a noble seriousness. 

“You, and my old village priest, are the only ones who un¬ 
derstand me,” Lola voiced the age-old complaint. 

These two women, each the very antithesis of the other, 
met on the common ground of womanly comprehension of 


226 


SOUL TOYS 


the under-lying faith that makes women the chief supporters 
of the churches. 

“There is no greater delight than to be conscious of right 
within us,” preached the Nun. 

Lola puckered her sensitive, intense mouth for a moment, 
and then expressed her inmost feelings: 

“I never felt that I was doing wrong, until I met Cornie’s 
second wife. I considered my profession as the equal of 
any other. In Paris, we have a certain position. But now 
I see how false that place is, how shifting the sands under it, 
dependent on the whims of a keeper—like a caged animal! ” 
she shuddered at her own comparison. 

“It is never too late to mend your ways, and if you are 
truly repentant you will be forgiven. Tell me, have you had 
many lovers?” the female curiosity would not be downed 
even by the Nun’s garb. 

“About a dozen, I believe. I never kept track of them. 
C’est V affaire d’un moment! A succession of foolish men— 
mostly married who felt very wicked when they were with 
me, and gloried in the comments of their friends when seen 
in my company. They paid well for what they received. I 
do not complain—only I have sickened of it all. The recol¬ 
lection nauseates me. For the first time in my life, I feel 
really ashamed,” she bowed her head in recognition of her 
feeling. 

“Shame is the first step to repentance,” commented the 
Nun. “Remember He said: ‘I am not come to call the 
righteous, but sinners to repentance;’ and again, ‘He that 
shall humble himself shall himself be exalted.’ ” 

“Is there really hope for so base a sinner as I have been? ” 
was her expectant question. 

The Nun opened the Bible, which rested on the table at 
her side, to that wonderful passage in St. Luke and read in 
a softly musical voice: 

“Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are 


SHIFTING WINDS 


227 


forgiven; for she loved much; but to whom little is for¬ 
given, the same loveth little. And He said unto her: ‘Thy 
sins are forgiven/ ” 

“And so He says to you, ‘Go forth and sin no more/ ” 
she said; and closing the book, quoted the concluding phrase 
of the chapter from which she had read, “ ‘Thy faith hath 
saved thee; go in peace/ ” 

The sobbing woman rose, kissed the Nun’s hand and 
stumbled from the room in a haze of tears. 

After Lola departed the Mother bent her head in silent 
prayer of thankfulness for the healing power given to her, 
then rose and proceeded with her manifold duties. 

The woman went back to her apartment, where she found 
Cornie impatiently awaiting her return. 

“Where in the world have you been? Do you think I am 
your servant, to be kept waiting at your sweet pleasure,” he 
stormed angrily; “and why the mourning ? Who has died ? ” 
he continued. 

She sat down without replying and began to sob. 

He crossed to her side, his anger melted by her tears: 
“Never mind, I don’t care, it’s all right, but who has died? ” 
he smilingly repeated. 

“The Lola Tuite you have known is gone forever! ” 

He looked at her with a quizzical expression, and then 
realized that something within her had changed. “What 
has happened to you ? ” he demanded. 

“I have spent the afternoon with your aunt.” 

“My aunt? Not Mother Justine!” 

She nodded affirmatively. 

“I suppose she made you feel what a miserable sinner 
you are,” he remarked with a sneer. 

“No! No! She showed me how I could be forgiven.” 

“Shut yourself away in a convent, I suppose.” 

“No—repent—repent,” she sobbed. 

“Oh, ho, is that all you have to do ? So you are repenting 
in tears, and am I to be forbidden my own apartment? ” 


228 


SOUL TOYS 


“I will leave now. You must realize I can not go on like 
this ? ” 

Suddenly Cornie thought of his latest, the Follies girl, and 
it occurred to him that here was a happy release from this 
woman of whom he had already tired. He immediately took 
charge of the situation. 

“This apartment is yours, you have earned it. I will make 
a substantial deposit to your account.” 

He rose and extended his hand: “Then this is good-bye 
Lola?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “God bless you.” 

It rather pleased him, this blessing from his dying flame, 
and he left her with a feeling of satisfaction at the ending 
of the affair. 

He stopped at the corner drug store and telephoned to 
Christine Ives, that he would call and take her to dinner. 
He decided he would insist upon furnishing a more suitable 
apartment than the one she was occupying. 

So do the philanderers close one account and open another 
with an easy transition—the elasticity of passion! 

The next day, on the Academy steps, Meta and Clare met 
on their way to visit Mother Justine. They had not seen 
each other since Meta’s marriage. It was rather embarrass¬ 
ing for them. The latter had always had a latent ani¬ 
mosity toward Clare for taking Cornie away from her, as 
she put it in her thoughts. Clare felt a deep pity for Meta; 
whom she supposed was now suffering from Cornie’s Beauty 
Cult practices, as she had done. 

They exchanges some commonplaces about being glad 
to see each other, and went up to the Nun’s office together. 
She greeted them without evidencing her surprise. Clare 
hastened to explain that she had only stopped in to ask her 
to spend a day with them very soon, which the Nun promised 
to do, then excused herself, saying that she had an appoint¬ 
ment to keep. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


229 


Meta anxiously asked the Mother the outcome of her in¬ 
terview with Lola, and was told of the latter’s repentance 
and promise to give up Cornie. Meta thanked Mother Jus¬ 
tine for the part she had taken in bringing this about, and 
said that Lola had called her by telephone and asked to meet 
her. They had an engagement to meet in the Waldorf lobby 
late in the afternoon. 

“Undoubtedly she wants to tell you herself about our 
interview,” the Nun said. 

“I feel for the first time that I completely own my hus¬ 
band,” Meta remarked proudly. 

“With some men, that is never possible for any woman to 
do. They are naturally polygamous, and restrain their pas¬ 
sions only as the law, and a certain regard for the conventions 
and avoidance of gossip, demands. They want a good re¬ 
spectable wife—and a harem as an adjunct to their house¬ 
hold,” commented the Nun with her usual insight into the 
world as well as the spirit. 

“Likewise, there are some women who are not satisfied 
with their husband’s worship, but require the flattery and 
adulation of other men. And very often, these ‘virtuous 
wives’ nurse unacted desires that make them as guilty as 
their husbands,” she continued. 

“A new moral code of married life, of home life, is needed, 
whereby the husband shall be sufficient unto the wife and the 
wife unto the husband and the children the cement of the 
union,” was her prescription. “Not a hermit-like existence, 
but a oneness of affection and passion. The wife should 
daily win afresh the husband’s love, and not assume it a 
certain unchangeable thing. The husband must remember 
that the words of the marriage ceremony do not close the 
eyes of his wife to his defects or the perfections of other 
men.” 

“Men will have mistresses so long as wives do not satis¬ 
fy their desires! The solution is, not for the latter to make 


230 


SOUL TOYS 


themselves like the former, but to so demean themselves that 
there will be no need for the husband to seek the former,” 
the Nun concluded. 

Meta left with an ardent desire to do her share in the 
domestic work. She met Lola, as agreed, with great confi¬ 
dence in herself. The latter opened the conversation. 

“For your sake, I have given him up forever. We have 
separated—it is over—but beware someone else does not take 
my place! ” she warned. 

Impetuously, Meta leaned forward and kissed her com¬ 
panion. 

“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” she said; and 
then, as an after-thought, “Could you—would you—tell me 
any way by which I can hold my husband ? ” 

Lola smiled. The humor of the situation pleased her 
vanity. “Allez! Give him a child to love, that’s the one 
thing he needs. A little cherub, a true and lawful heir. No 
mistress can give him that! ” 

Meta bowed her head. “I am expecting-” she said 

demurely. 

“Good, don’t worry, the child will hold him fast; and don’t 
be jealous.” It was her turn to kiss Meta, as she rose to go 
on her way. 

With peculiar feelings Meta greeted her husband when he 
next met him. A longing to have him all for herself over¬ 
powered her. She hugged him with a passion never before 
expressed, that took him by surprise. 

“She has depths of feeling that I don’t know about,” he 
thought, as he recalled the light passionless caresses of the 
Follies’ Girl. 

“Where will we go tonight, my dear ? ” he asked with an 
affectionate smile. 

“Can you get tickets for the Metropolitan? Caruso sings 
in ‘La Juive / They say it is his best role. I should so love 
to hear it.” 

“There isn’t any theatre in little old New York that Cor- 



SHIFTING WINDS 


231 


nie can’t get the best seats in, whenever he wants,” he boasted. 

So to the great old Opera House they went. In the won¬ 
derful love of Rachael for the married Prince, Meta recog¬ 
nized her own love for Cornie, when he was Clare’s husband. 
In that marvelous song, where the father expresses his love 
for his daughter, she sounded the depths of her own pas¬ 
sionate love. 

The humiliation of the Cardinal pleased Cornie, who said, 
“These stiff-necked churchmen who will not marry divorced 
people make me sick.” 

They came away soothed by the depth of the music and 
feeling very close to one another. 

The months slipped by in a whirl of social affairs for 
Meta and Cornie, and a blissful solitude for Clare and Jean. 

At last, the eventful time for Meta and Cornie arrived. 
As the latter paced the floor in front of his wife’s room in 
the hospital, awaiting word from the physician as to how 
she was enduring the greatest ordeal that woman can un¬ 
dergo, for the first time in his existence life ceased to be a 
quip and a jest, and became a serious thing. 

Her cries burned to his innermost soul and he doubted 
himself. “Was he fit to be the father of Meta’s child ? ” he 
brooded. 

Suddenly the door opened, and the doctor, with a solemn 
face, beckoned him to follow to a little sun-room where they 
could be seated. 

“Very serious,” he began as Cornie’s heart almost stopped 
beating. “I do not believe it is possible to save both mother 
and child. We will have to perform the Caesarean operation, 
and you must decide which we shall try to save.” 

Was ever a man called upon to make a harder decision! 
Even a Solomon could not avoid this! His wife or his un¬ 
born child ! A god-like answer required—a positive decision! 

“Is there no possible chance of saving them both ? ” Cornie 
demanded. 


232 


SOUL TOYS 


“One chance, but if we take that we may lose both—prob¬ 
ably will; otherwise we can surely save one or the other.” 

“Terrible, terrible! ” muttered Cornie. “Try to save them 
both—you must save them both! ” 

“My dear sir,” replied the doctor firmly but softly, “I am 
no God! I can only do my best; but I would prefer to be 
sure of one.” 

“If you have to choose—then save my wife! ” 

“Very well,” the doctor assented, and returned to the 
room. 

What an eternity it seemed as Cornie paced up and down 
the hall! Scenes in his early life, long forgotten, hurled 
themselves before him. He began to question his right to 
fatherhood. How presumptuous he had been, after such a 
life as he had led! Meta going through hell! to hold him! 
Meta at death’s door! But she would come through the 
ordeal, of that he was confident. Look at the millions of 
women who had done so! What was the sense of it? He 
should have insisted in his original decision not to have 
children—but she had begged so hard! and now- 

The physician opened the door and called him. The nurse 
held out a tiny red bit of humanity. “A girl!” she said; 
“eight pounds! ” 

A weight seemed to drop from Cornie’s shoulders. He 
smiled, looked at his child diffidently, then quickly asked, 
“Can I see my wife ? ” 

The nurse turned away. The doctor looked him squarely 
in the eyes as he put his hands on Cornie’s shoulders. “She 
is gone, my lad! ” he breathed softly. “We could not save 
her. We did our best, but she had to give up her life to 
save her child.” 

“Gone!” Cornie echoed. He could not understand. 
“Gone? ” he dumbly questioned. The doctor nodded. 

For the second time within a few hours, life’s reality be¬ 
came strangely apparent to Cornie. He staggered out of the 



SHIFTING WINDS 


233 


hall. He felt as if he had lost his own mother. Meta had 
been that to him. She was gone now. He had been untrue 
to her. He felt these others were mocking him, that they 
were laughing at him. 

He 'brushed his hand across his fevered brow as if to 
put away these intruders. They were alive, and Meta was 
dead. How he had made her suffer! And still she loved him, 
and to hold him had sacrificed her life! He was to blame! 
Here and now was his punishment. 

He could not face the future alone. He called his brother, 
and Jean and Clare responded. Whatever bitterness there 
had been between them was, for the time being, forgotten in 
the greater tragedy, as was also Clay’s antagonism. 

When the last rites had been said and their whole atten¬ 
tion centered on the wee babe, it was Clare who suggested 
that she and Jean would take the child and raise her. 

Cornie willingly consented, with the understanding that 
he would send a check regularly to cover the expense of a 
nurse and other essentials. Clay was very much pleased 
with this arrangement. 

So Cornelia Wildner, as she was named, came also to the 
house in the mountains, and Clare took her under her ma¬ 
ternal wings as she had Keats. How many childless, cheated 
mothers there are in the world, who take to their hearts 
other women’s offspring and pour out on them a devotion as 
strong, perhaps stronger than the real mother would give! 

Clare was happy and busy with her two wards, but very 
often bemoaned the fact that Cornie should have received all 
of his father’s estate. One day shortly after Meta’s death, 
she called Jean with a great cry: “My hopes have been 
answered! Look at this! ” She handed him a letter ad¬ 
dressed to Cornie in his father’s handwriting. 

“Where did you get this?” Jean asked excitedly. 

“I remember that it fell from the desk in my apartment in 
the hotel in Paris as I was packing my things, and I threw 


234 


SOUL TOYS 


it among my other papers without reading it. It must have 
gotten into this big envelope and just dropped out now as I 
reached into that pigeon hole. Read what he says about a 
new will again.” Jean took the letter and read as follows: 

“I have to-day gone to Phoenicia, to the law firm of 
Beamer, Rohns and Kirk, and made a new will, in which I 
have divided my estate equally between you and Jean, with 
the exception of a provision for little Keats, of whom I 
have become very fond, and certain charitable and household 
bequests. I have found Jean to have an underlying common 
sense that I never suspected, and I have therefore decided to 
do away with the trust arrangement that I discussed with 
you.” 

Astonishment and joy were written in large type on their 
faces. 

“You had better go directly to Phoenicia to those lawyers, 
and find out if they have the will,” Clare advised excitedly. 

Jean did so, and found that Mr. Beamer, the senior mem¬ 
ber of the firm, who, he was told, had personally drawn such 
a will, had died shortly after its execution, but it was re¬ 
posing safely in their files. Its provisions were found to be 
as stated in the letter to Cornie. 

“I advertised at the time,” explained Jean, “as I thought 
my father had made another will; but of course I had no 
way of knowing where, as he never said.” 

“It is strange he did not put it in his safety deposit box; 
still, we have a great many wills left with us for safekeep¬ 
ing,” Mr. Rohns vindicated his action. “Your father, not 
having been a regular client of this office, we did not hear 
of his death, and, of course, we do not search all the papers 
for advertisements of missing wills.” 

“I realize that,” Jean replied; “but what shall we do now? 
I want you to act for me in this matter.” 

“Who are the executors of the other will ? ” 


SHIFTING WINDS 


235 


“The New York Trust Company and my brother Cornie.” 

“Can you go to New York with me this afternoon? We 
will find out the status of the estate proceedings and later file 
this will for probate/’ 

They went to the city and found Mr. Lenane of the Trust 
Company, who informed them that Cornie had left the es¬ 
tate intact with them to look after, simply drawing the in¬ 
come. 

Lenane got in touch with Cornie, who came down to the 
Trust Company’s office and protested his ignorance of the 
letter and the new will. 

“I am convinced that your brother is not telling the truth! ” 
Mr. Rohns declared to Jean. 

“So am I,” assented the latter. 

However, no argument was necessary, as Cornie readily 
agreed, after his attorneys so advised him, to give Jean his 
share without a fight. The first will was set aside, the sec¬ 
ond admitted to Probate, and Jean came into his rightful 
inheritance. 

The several lawyers reached an adjustment of the accrued 
income, as Cornie had made several lucrative investments 
with part of his income, that enabled him to pay the agreed 
sum without touching his principal. 

After the knowledge of Cornie’s duplicity neither Clare 
nor Jean cared to see him, and on the infrequent visits he 
paid to Cornelia, they managed not to be present. He did 
not know that Jean believed Keats also to be his child. 

Mother Justine took a great interest in Keats and said she 
was going to make a priest of him. He was growing rapidly 
into a robust lad, with a most inquisitive mind. 

“This is the only real life,” declared Clare one bright 
morning, “to live here in the midst of Nature’s glories and to 
have in our charge two of God’s gifts. All my previous life, 
my dolls were stuffed with sawdust; my life was hollow and 
tinselly; now it is solid and real—vibrating with life.” 


236 


SOUL TOYS 


“Divorce may not be a desirable thing,” she conceded to 
Jean; “but it opened the door to our happiness. My one 
misstep could have ruined both our lives. The decree set 
free the flood-gates of our life’s joy—and our soul’s delight.” 

“I feel sometimes,” Jean expressed himself from his over¬ 
fulness, “that I had suddenly touched some magic source— 
an Aladdin’s lamp or a vase of Djinns to have all this hap¬ 
piness come to me; you, the children, and in my own moun¬ 
tains, then world goods enough! We have found Paradise, 
but we have both had to go through Hell to get here! ” 

“There is only one thing that makes me sad,” Clare said. 

“I know.” Jean intuitively understood. “Your parents! ” 

Clare nodded. “We ought to make up with them! I know 
they must be lonely,” she said pensively. “But I don’t know 
how we can do anything without hurting their feelings. You 
know how sensitive and proud they are.” 

“Suppose we run up to ‘World’s End’ on Saturday. They 
can do no more than throw us out,” Jean suggested. 

“Do you think it is all right to just drop in on them? ” 

“Sure! that’s the only way to do it. These letter reconcili¬ 
ations are always unsatisfactory. A good cry and a kiss are 
better than the smoothest letter.” 

“Very well, let’s make it this Saturday. It makes me ner¬ 
vous to think about it.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Emerson were seated on the porch of their 
comfortable home as Clare and Jean drove up. 

There was just a moment of hesitation as mother and 
father each looked to the other to make the first advance, then 
both arose and walked to meet their daughter and son-in- 
law. Clare seemed impelled by an unseen force to find her 
mother’s arms and mingle her tears with those of the older 
woman, while her father and Jean stood shaking each other’s 
hands as if unwilling to separate. 

“Two years lost, and life is so short at most! ” Mr. Emer¬ 
son said shaking his head sadly as they all found seats. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


237 


“Where are your bags ? ” Mrs. Emerson asked. 

“We left them in the car,” Clare answered shyly. 

‘Til tell William to put them in Clare’s room,” Mr. Emer¬ 
son said to his wife. 

Clare found her parents older and sadder, their buoyancy 
seemed gone. 

“After all,” Mrs. Emerson said, just before they left, 
“every one must work out his own destiny! ” 

“Yes,” her husband added, “sometimes we try too hard 
to force Fate to move in the path we have planned for her. 
We are not gods, we must accept.” 

Clare smiled at the new attitude of her parents. “I really 
believe we can do a lot, though, to aid Fate in her journey, 
if we love enough-” 

“That is all that has kept us up,” Mrs. Emerson said with 
a sigh, “our love and our memories.” 

Jean thought how queer it is that after one reaches the 
noon-day of life, love mates with past memories, recollec¬ 
tions, softly fragrant and sweet; while in the morning-time, 
love mates with future hopes, ambitions, strong scented and 
pungent. 



CHAPTER XXV 


Sorrow, grief, remorse following Death’s blast are borne 
on the wings of the cold North Wind, but oft times are car¬ 
ried away again by the languorous, sensuous South Wind, 
which, with its hot breath, redolent of the Tropics, whispers 
over and over: “Forget! Live! Love ! ” 

Cornie sought the beautiful Christine Ives to help him 
forget. He opened a studio in Greenwich Village, resumed 
his modeling, and she posed for him. Leaving the stage to 
be with him, when she was not posing or sleeping, she kept 
him busy running errands and fulfilling her manifold de¬ 
sires. She decided that she would annex him to her house¬ 
hold, adding him to Treco, her Pekinese darling, her Jap 
butler and her French maid. 

Floating about in a peculiar grief which was more pity 
for himself than sorrow for Meta, Cornie was not fit to with¬ 
stand the short, sharp campaign of Christine. However, 
he dutifully withheld marrying her until slightly more than 
a year after his wife’s death, then the former Follies girl led 
him to the altar, or rather to the judge’s desk. 

Occasionally Cornie inquired for his daughter, but the 
mantle of fatherhood rested very lightly upon his shoulders. 
He was punctual in his remittances for her care and felt that 
fully constituted his duty to her. 

At times, Cornie would ponder on his three wives. He 
remarked once to Eddie Philbrick: “Marriage has become for 
me an accident, not a conquest.” 

“You are a regular bluebeard,” Eddie answered him; “or 
are you the reincarnation of Henry VIII or King Solomon?” 

“I have proven,” Cornie declared, “that Hope can conquer 
Experience.” 


238 


SHIFTING WINDS 


239 


‘‘And while there is life there is hope,” Eddie bantered. 
“I don’t suppose you are through yet.” 

‘‘Who knows what fate has in store for me? Now I have 

a Cleopatra—a beauty all right—but brains-” he threw 

up his hands in despair. 

“I want to send some roses to a girl. Do you know how 
much American Beauties are ? ” Eddie inquired. • 

“I ought to know,” Cornie replied, “I married one.” 

“One?” Eddie corrected him. “You flowery dissipater, 
you married a bunch! ” 

Cornie chuckled as he hurried home to meet his wife. 

“Corn-ie! Corn-ie! ” she called with her drawling voice 
as she heard him come in and close the door. “Bring me a 
cocktail! For God’s sake hurry, or I’ll die.” 

Like an obedient servant he prepared the drink. 

“There it is, Christine dear,” he said, as he placed it be¬ 
fore her. 

“I am going back on the stage,” she informed him. “You 
bore me to death. I was offered my old place to-day.” 

“You are far from flattering,” he retorted spiritedly. 
“You are the first woman who ever told me that! And the 
first woman who has ever ruled me! You decide what you 
want to do, and what you intend to have me do. When 
you care to, you tell me what you have decided! More often, 
I find myself doing what you wish without any previous in¬ 
formation.” 

“Now don’t complain, Corn-ie! and for God’s sake don’t 
remind me of the other women in your life! Heaven knows 
I am not responsible for them. Now run along for a while, 
but come back in time to take me to lunch at the Ritz, and 
stop in at Tiffany’s and see if they have re-set the ring I 
selected yesterday. Pay for it and bring it back with you.” 
Imperiously she dismissed him. 

“I’m getting tired of this puppy-dog existence that my 
wife has made for me in her life,” he meditated as he walked 



240 


SOUL TOYS 


away from the old Wildner home where she had insisted 
that they live, transferring her dog, her butler, and her maid 
to the new surroundings. Nevertheless, he attended to the 
errand and took her to lunch as she wished. 

In the evening they were invited to a studio dance in the 
Village. The room was hung with red lanterns, and as 
Christine sat under one Cornie noted that her raven-black 
hair and eyes were in delightful contrast to the red lines that 
formed an aureole, as it were, above her head. 

Oliver Wister, an artist, asked him: “What is Beauty?” 

As he looked at the Juno-like face and figure of his wife, 
he answered, “Beauty is a gift of God. He distributes it 
apparently without consideration where it falls. It is like a 
painted vase—there may be nothing in it.” He laughed 
boisterously as he helped himself to the strong punch. 

“Well, that doesn’t answer my question,” his inquirer 
persisted. 

“It is a subtle, baffling, impalpable charm, that will not 
permit of explanation. There are certain persons whose 
looks and manner seem to bewitch at first sight with an ir¬ 
resistible fascination. They cast a subtle spell, an inex¬ 
plicable sorcery, that cannot be shaken off. Beauty is a 
hovering, floating, glittering shadow that cannot be defined, 
but only felt.” 

“You seem to have captured a prize beauty,” the artist 
commented. 

“Try to catch a butterfly; when you pin it down, its bright¬ 
est colors are gone. When it is dead, its charm is gone. I 
have tried all my life to possess Beauty. I cannot help my¬ 
self. I want to make every beautiful creature my very own. 
You remember Saint Simon of Fenelon said, Tt requires an 
effort not to look at beautiful women.’ I cannot make the 
effort.” 

“My dear sir,” his companion remonstrated, “you cannot 
possess Beauty, because it is life; and it is impossible for 


SHIFTING WINDS 


241 


mortal man to control that spirit which we call life. We 
can tear the rose apart, but we cannot find the secret that 
gave it beauty. ,, 

Jane Conway, another artist, came up to them as Wister 
made that reply. “Tell me, how did you ever manage to 
marry three beautiful women?” she abruptly demanded of 
Cornie. 

“When Napoleon was asked how he won his victories, he 
replied: ‘Mon Dien, c’est ma natur: je suis fait comme ca! * ” 

“No man can violate his nature,” was her comment. “Are 
you happy now ? ” 

“So happy that I have been thinking of Reno all day! ” 

“Reno, the Mecca for vacillating souls! ” 

“I suppose someone must keep the divorce pot boiling,” 
Cornie rejoined carelessly. 

“You radiate good spirits even in these Prohibition times. 
You are no hypocrite. You are outspoken in your views.” 

“I want to batter down the doors of dogmatism and take 
off the lid that suffocates mankind. Why should we be tied 
down to a dead passion, or live an unhappy life? We each 
have the inalienable right to happiness. I propose to find 
it, if I have to get married and divorced a dozen times! I 
found it once,” he sighed, “but it was taken from me.” He 
shrugged his shoulders: “You know the old saying, Tf at 
first you don’t succeed, try, try, again! * ” 

“But what of the next world—how will your soul choose 
its companion ? ” the girl demanded, probing further. 

“Was it Thoreau who said, ‘One world, please, at a 
time ? y I do not believe we will retain our individuality in 
the next world, but will be a part of a sort of happy mass. 
We will melt back into the great ocean of world memory.” 

George Fields, a philosophical writer came up. “What is 
the discussion ? ” he asked. 

“Hail the male vamp!” Jane Conway cried. 

“Which of his three wives will be his mate in the here¬ 
after?” Oliver Wister asked Fields. 


242 


SOUL TOYS 


“Some poser, but the answer is here/’ He drew from his 
pocket a well-thumbed little Bible as he replied: 

“Thus the Saducees asked, where there were seven broth¬ 
ers, and under the old law, the widow had to marry her hus¬ 
band’s brother if she had no children of her own: and she 
married one after the other, dying last herself.’’ He turned 
to a marked passage and read, “Therefore in the resurrec¬ 
tion, whose wife shall she be of the seven? For they all had 
her. Jesus answered and said unto them, ‘Ye do err, not 
knowing the scriptures or the power of God. For in the 
resurrection they neither marry nor give in marriage, but 
are as the angels of God in Heaven.’ ” 

“Some consolation,” suggested Jane. “You will be free 
again.” 

“I can never be free of the influence of Beauty. It en¬ 
thralls me and makes me its abject slave.” 

“You poor man, I wish I were beautiful, so that I could 
be your master! ” 

They both laughed uproariously and moved toward the 
piano where someone was singing. 

All through the evening, Christine ignored her husband, 
moving away as he approached, giving most of her attention 
to a callow youth who hovered about her like a moth, drink¬ 
ing in her beauty and her mostly monosyllabic conversation. 

Cornie inquired about her new attendant and discovered 
that he was a recent arrival from Nevada, loaded with his 
late father’s wealth, which, as an only son, he had just 
inherited. 

“She hears the clink of the metal eagles behind him; no 
doubt they make a much louder noise than my pile,” he 
thought bitterly. 

As they rode home, Cornie chided his wife for her lack 
of attention to him during the evening: “Don’t you love me 
at all ? ” he demanded. 

“I do not explain my actions to anyone! ” she answered 


SHIFTING WINDS 


243 


haughtily. “I will not be scolded. Call it my whim— 
a notion,” she shrugged her shoulders. “I told you that you 
bore me; George Carson interests me, and I am going to 
see a lot of him. I agreed to go to lunch with him tomorrow, 
so calm yourself—calm yourself.” 

Had she been timid or apologetic, Cornie might have over¬ 
looked her egotistical statements, attributing them to her love 
of adulation, but her forward, bold antagonism he determined 
he would not put up with. 

In the days following the studio dance Carson was a fre¬ 
quent visitor to their home, and Cornie knew that his wife 
met him frequently. 

Christine never had much to say, but now spoke to her 
husband only when necessary. While he brooded over this 
condition of affairs, he ignored it as much as possible, be¬ 
lieving it was only a passing infatuation. 

Therefore, he was totally unprepared for the surprising 
announcement that her gentleman friend was waiting in his 
outer office and wanted to see him. 

“I love your wife, and I want to marry her.” Carson be¬ 
gan the conversation in a matter of fact way. 

“Marry her ? ” Cornie echoed. “How can you ? It would 
be bigamy for her, wouldn’t it?” 

“Oh, I don’t mean while she is married to you! ” 

“Do you want my consent to marry my wife after I am 
dead ? ” he asked in amazement. 

“Can’t you understand ? I want you to let Christine 
get a divorce. I’ll make it all right with you.” 

“So that’s the rub. I am to retire gracefully and turn over 
my beautiful wife to you, for a consideration, I suppose.” 

“You put it bluntly but correctly. I’ll settle—say—twenty- 
five thousand on you.” 

“Well, well, you don’t value her so highly after all. I 
should say she would be worth at least fifty thousand to 
you.” 


244 


SOUL TOYS 


“Very well, make it that figure. I’ll make you out a 
check now so as to lose no time.” 

“Suppose I don’t let it go through, after I have your 
money ? ” 

“I will trust you. Your word is good.” 

“Thank you! But what grounds could she claim ? ” 

“I assume your actions may offer enough to satisfy the 
Nevada courts.” 

Cornie shrugged his shoulders and asked, “You will go to 
Reno ? ” 

“My home is not far from there.” 

“Very convenient. I suppose I may have the privilege of 
saying good-bye to my wife?” 

“Of course—but I should like to be present.” 

“As her future mate, you want to get pointers on a pos¬ 
sible farewell, is that it?” 

“No, but I don’t want you to go too far.” 

“Remember she is still my wife! ” 

“Legally, yes, but you have accepted my offer, here is 
your check.” He had been writing as he conversed. 

“The deal is closed, I suppose,” Cornie replied cynically. 
“My rights cease from payment and yours commence, eh?” 

“Your language is strong, but you state proper conclu¬ 
sions.” 

“In other words, what I say is true, but you don’t like 
its sound.” 

“Why not go up now, and be done with it ? ” 

“Very well, I will be quite circumspect.” He was amused 
at the unique situation. So the husband-to-be-divorced, and 
the husband-to-be-married, went to call on their joint wife. 

“I have agreed not to try to bridle the lioness,” he told 
Christine ironically. “I shall not contest your intended suit, 
but please be careful of my good name,” he quietly added. 

“Your good name! ” she retorted. “Good for nothing! ” 

“Ah, my ‘Golden Sphinx! ’ you have sold it back to me for 
fifty thousand. It was worth that.” 


SHIFTING WINDS 


245 


“Fifty thousand! Is that what you gave him? ” she asked 
her lover in amazement. 

He nodded affirmatively. 

“And I am not asking alimony! I ought to get some of 
it.” 

“But I am being divorced against my will. If you wish, 
I will contest the case.” 

“No,” answered the other man, “I insist on its going 
through without any trouble.” 

“Then this is good-bye, Christine,” Cornie said with a 
comic seriousness. 

“Yes, I have my things packed and will move to the Ritz 
this evening.” 

“I suppose I may have a good-bye kiss? ” 

She looked at the third party, but he gave no sign, so she 
puckered up her lips for the farewell kiss. 

“I hope you will be as good to her as I have been,” Cornie 
suggested; “and please learn a few more words,” he whis¬ 
pered to Christine as he shook hands with her. 

He left them together and went to his club, where he met 
Eddie Philbrick. 

“Congratulate me, old man, I am to be divorced! ” 

“What ? Again! ” was the surprised answer. “What 
have you done to the Venus? ” 

“Let her fall for a richer man, who paid me well to let her 
go. And the joke is on them, for I intended to sue for a di¬ 
vorce myself. The ‘Golden Sphinx’ was a very tiresome 
companion.” 

“You lucky dog, things always go your way.” 

“Not always, Eddie. The first girl I loved didn’t care 
for me—she married me—that started me on my way.” 

“Well, you can be more careful next time. What is this, 
your third who is going? ” 

“Yes, my third. I am no saint, Eddie, but I think I have 
been more sinned against than sinning.” 


SOUL TOYS 


246 


“Hard luck, old chap! But better days are coming, cheer 
up! ” 

“Have you ever seen my daughter, Eddie ? ” Suddenly 
Cornie thought of Meta’s child. 

“No, I would love to see her.” 

“Run up to Jean’s with me to-morrow, just for the after¬ 
noon ; it’s vacation time, she will be at home.” 

“That’s a go; when will we start? ” 

“I will call for you as early as I can.” 

They found Clare and Jean at home, but after bringing 
Cornelia to her father, they pleaded certain errands in the 
village, and left them together. 

It was a subdued Cornie who tried to amuse his child, and 
proudly displayed her charms to Eddie, who declared she al¬ 
ready showed signs of becoming a beautiful girl. 

The necessary months passed, and Cornie was advised that 
Christine had been granted a divorce in Reno on the grounds 
of cruelty and infidelity. She had pleaded his all-night ab¬ 
sences from home, and set forth his affair with the French 
woman, about which she knew, although that was a thing of 
the distant past. But there being no contest, the decree was 
granted on the evidence presented. Once again Cornie was 
a single man; six years had passed since he had been cap¬ 
tured by the “Golden Sphinx.” Just about this time after 
many years of courtship, Jim Vanduyne and Horto Leaman 
were at last married. Clay did not renew his companionship 
with Cornie after Meta’s death, and so Cornie had no one 
but Eddie to fall back upon. 

At Cornie’s urgent request, Eddie came to live with him. 
Once again, the two pals, sole remaining active members of 
the old Heart-Mates club, plunged into the gay vortex of 
New York’s Bohemian Life and for several years continued 
to swim with the fast current. 

The idea had occurred to Cornie to have his daughter re¬ 
side with him, but shirking the responsibility, he had put off 


SHIFTING WINDS 


247 


suggesting it, until after arrangements had been made to en¬ 
ter Cornelia as a boarding-student at St. Mary’s Academy 
under her aunt’s tutelage. Clare and Jean felt very lonely 
after she had left, as Keats, too, was away, being finally 
settled at Loyola College in Baltimore, and on the road to 
the priesthood. A close affection had grown up between 
the two, who believed themselves to be first cousins. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Atlantic City, a panorama of life! Walking or riding, all 
the country passes to and fro on the Board Walk by the 
towering mountains of brick and stone. The old Atlantic, 
twice daily, kisses their feet in adoration for housing the 
thousands whom she foolishly believes come from afar to 
gaze on her restless features and sip her salty breath, but 
who actually come to see one another. 

Cornie and Eddie were frequent visitors to the “Nation’s 
Playground” since the former was again “unencumbered” as 
he put it. On one occasion, when they were seated on the 
deck-like veranda of the Traymore, watching the rolling 
chairs, the people, the pet dogs, the ponies, and the airships, 
an endless parade, Cornie said to Eddie, “How have you 
ever managed to remain a bachelor all these years ? ” 

“ ‘It is better to dwell alone in the corner of the housetop, 
than with a brawling woman and in a wide house/ ” was his 
quick retort. 

“Eddie quoting the Bible! What’s the world coming to! ” 

“I saw that on a calendar. It’s good.” 

“I wonder how many bachelors there are in this country ? ” 
Cornie mused. 

“I read an article the other day that gave the figures as 
nine million, according to the last census.” 

A lady who sat reading next to Cornie, looked up: “Par¬ 
don me, gentlemen, but did I hear you say there are nine 
million bachelors in the United States?” 

“That’s what someone, who seemed to know what she was 
talking about, said in an article I read recently.” 

“Nine million potential husbands roaming this fair land, 
with no one stopping them! I have had one, gentlemen, so 


248 


SHIFTING WINDS 


249 


do not think I have designs on any of them, but when I 
think of the really wonderful girls and women who would 
make ideal wives for them, I surely am in favor of a tax 
against them.” 

“Do you know how many bachelor maids—there are no old 
maids anymore—there are in this country ? ” Cornie asked 
curiously. 

“Want to know how many there are left for you to choose 
from for your next?” Eddie bantered. 

“I can tell you, twelve million, more than enough for you 
gentlemen to choose from. What a pity the government 
doesn’t run a matrimonial agency! ” 

“You couldn’t get this old marital Bolshevik with any ordi¬ 
nary traps,” Cornie laughingly declared, as he shook Eddie 
by the shoulders. “I think he has taken some anti-marriage 
serum that has made him immune from Cupid’s dart.” 

“I am a revolutionist against feminine tyranny and autoc¬ 
racy ! ” Eddie asserted with a smile. “Pardon me, but above 
all, against the spoiled and pampered American Beauties. 
My companion has had experience, he knows that I am tell¬ 
ing the truth.” 

“The truth, but not the whole truth,” Cornie explained. 
“My first and my last you have properly designated, but not 
my second.” 

“My goodness, have you been married three times ? ” 
asked the woman, in astonishment, as she looked up at him 
with a new interest. 

“I plead guilty. I have been trying to make up for these 
shirking bachelors.” 

“He is such a good thing,” Eddie explained mirthfully, 
“that they pass him along. He is too good to keep.” 

“Or perhaps too bad,” the lady corrected. “And you 
know ‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ ” 

“I have been as much divorced against as divorcing, 
Madam, I will have you understand,” Cornie objected stren¬ 
uously. 


250 


SOUL TOYS 


She smiled knowingly; “Oh, these men, they are never 
satisfied! ” 

“Indeed, I am very well satisfied,” Eddie told her. “If my 
friends would only cease trying to find a wife for me, I’d be 






perfectly happy.” 

“To tempt Eddie, the girl must be as beautiful as Venus, 
as rich as Croesus and as silent as—well, as my last wife.” 

“You have a corner on all the beauties. What is left for 
poor me ? ” Eddie returned sadly. 

“Perhaps this lady can find someone to fill the bill.” Cor- 
nie winked to her as he made the remark. 

T know just the girl for him! ” 

‘There they go again,” Eddie said woefully. “They’ll 
catch me yet.” 

“She is stopping at the Blenheim. I am going to call her 
over. You wait here,” their companion said as she arose 
and went to the telephone. 

“I know someone who is going to slip away before she 
comes back,” announced Eddie, jumping up from his steamer 
chair. 

“You are not!” Cornie blazed out. “You are going to 
stay right here and meet the queen. I must be amused.” 
‘And I am to be sacrificed to your pleasure, I suppose! ” 
‘Are you afraid of her?” Cornie taunted him. 

‘I am afraid of no one in petticoats,” his friend declared. 
He sank back in his chair, as if resigning himself to the 
coming torture. 

The lady returned. “She will be right over—says she is 
very anxious to meet a real bachelor and try her latest 
vamping style on him. My name is Baker—I am from New 
York,” she introduced herself to them. 

“Mine is Wildner, Cornelius Wildner, also from New 
York, and this is Eddie Philbrick, from the same place,” 
Cornie ended unconventionally. 

“Oh, are you Cornelius Wildner?” She looked at him 
in surprise. 




«< 




SHIFTING WINDS 


251 


“He looks as bad as he is painted, doesn’t he, Mrs. Baker?” 
Eddie declared. 

“I am not handsome,” Cornie answered, “but I don’t 
boast of my conquests, like someone I know does of the fact 
that no one will have him.” 

“Just wait until you see Elsie Walden, she’ll get him.” 

“I wish her good luck, believe me,” Cornie said, as a 
sprightly young girl in a white riding habit came up to them. 

“No one in petticoats!” muttered Cornie beneath his 
breath. He smiled as he said: “Eddie she’ll get you, look 
out! She is wearing the breeches already.” 

“Mr. Philbrick, I want you to meet Miss Walden, a very 
dear friend of mine.” 

“Delighted—to know you,—Miss Walden,” Eddie stam¬ 
mered as he accepted her outstretched hand. 

“And this is the famous Cornelius Wildner! ” 

“How do you do, Mr. Wildner,” she replied. “I am surely 
happy to meet you both. I have just come back from a de¬ 
lightful canter along the beach. It is so exhilarating!” 

Eddie thought she surely proved it, with her rosy cheeks, 
and lips red with a naturalness that was apparent. Her 
complexion was as smooth as silk, and her eyes gray, like a 
dove’s. Her small features were extremely regular and her 
figure slight and well molded. 

“Doesn’t she fill the first part of your prescription as to 
beauty?” Mrs. Baker asked Cornie, as Eddie entered into 
conversation with the girl. 

“She surely does. Who is she ? ” 

“Her father is the president of the American Metal 
Works, she is an only daughter. They have just moved to 
New York from Buffalo, where he made his millions.” 

“With Niagara Falls power,” Cornie said. 

She shrugged her shoulders. “She has money, what else 
was it you prescribed ? ” 

“Well, silence—or shall we say common sense? To know 


252 


SOUL TOYS 


when to be silent and when to speak. You know education 
alone will not bring that knowledge.” 

“Culture, you mean, or an inborn knowledge to do the 
right thing. She has that also.” 

“Eddie’s gone surely now,” Cornie declared. “Suppose 
we leave them to their fate. Mrs. Baker and I are going for 
a stroll on the board walk,” he told the others. 

“You know, I lost my dear husband two years ago,” ex¬ 
plained Mrs. Baker, as they came out upon the walk. “He 
was such a dear man, and left me so comfortably fixed.” 

“Hm! Hm!” thought Cornie, “she is fishing, herself.” He 
looked her over carefully for the first time. “Certainly no 
pretension to beauty, but decidedly chic, a charming manner 
and splendid appearance. She wears her clothes with dis¬ 
tinction. Who was her husband, I wonder ? ” 

“Mr. Baker was a great believer in insurance,” his com¬ 
panion continued. “He had taken out a very large policy 
just before his death.” 

“What business was he in ? ” Cornie inquired. 

“Vice-president of the Unity Insurance Company.” 

“Baker, the insurance man,” Cornie said to himself. “I 
remember hearing what a tight-wad he was.” 

“Sometimes, I am very lonely,” the lady faltered. “Have 
you ever thought of marrying again, Mr. Wildner? ” 

“No, well—yes! In fact I have decided never to do so 
again,” he discouraged her. 

“But why? Man was not meant to travel alone.” 

“He doesn’t have to get married to travel double,” Cornie 
retorted. 

“Now, Mr. Wildner! I know you are a respectable man! ” 

“Respectable, yes,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t measure up 
to the late Mr. Baker, I am afraid.” 

“Why not ? ” she persisted. 

“Well, I will tell you, Mrs. Baker, I think I was a Phoeni¬ 
cian raider in some past existence, then an Arabian trader, 
an English buccaneer perhaps, and finally-” 



SHIFTING WINDS 


253 


“An American Philanderer! ” she completed his sentence. 

“I was going to add, an American husband.” 

“What do you mean by that ? ” 

“I have taken that up as my life work. Do you know I 
am half-minded to try to win your friend from Eddie! ” 

“Oh, no! You wouldn’t spoil that fresh romance,” she 
begged. “Neither of them has ever been married.” 

“To the victors belong the spoils, and the race is not al¬ 
ways to the swift, you know,” he resumed with a preoccu¬ 
pied air. 

“You seem determined to live up to your reputation,” she 
blazed in her disappointment. “I shall do all I can to pre¬ 
vent your ruining that young girl’s life.” 

“My dear lady, one cannot marry any person against her 
will in these days, and surely the field is not closed to any¬ 
one who wishes to try his skill.” 

“I shall warn her! ” 

“Do so, Mrs. Baker, but remember that warnings add spice 
to the journey, and forbidden fruit is the sweetest and most 
desired! ” 

“Mr. Walking Book of Proverbs, I suppose you also know 
that a burnt child keeps away from the fire.” 

“So you think I am burnt out! Well, I am going to try 
my hand at conquering the fire again! ” 

They were back at the hotel. Returning to the upper deck, 
they found that Elsie and Eddie were not there. 

Mrs. Baker looked at Cornie in triumph. “He has the 
start on you, at any rate.” 

“Many a horse that has hesitated at the start, has finished 
in the lead,” he replied with a smile, as he raised his hat 
and went into the hotel. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


A magnificent box of roses and lilies of the valley arrived 
at the Blenheim the morning following the episode on the 
Traymore deck, for Miss Elsie Walden. When she de¬ 
lightedly opened the box, she read from the card: 

“To the Rose of Sharon—Lily of the Valley: 

“I send her namesakes that I may think of the likeness of 
one to the other, every time I meet either. 

“Respectfully, 

“Cornelius M. Wildner.” 

The implied compliment, the delicate tone of respectful 
adulation that the note breathed, caused a recipient feeling of 
appreciation, natural to any young girl. That the rich man 
of the world, with his many romances, should have deigned 
to even notice her, pleased her vanity. She did not realize 
that in the full flush of her maidenly splendour she was as 
choice a morsel for his satiated appetite, as tempting a bit, as 
ever made a glutton forget his fullness. 

She hastened to write a reply: 

“To the Cedar of Lebanon: 

“In humility, the little rose and lily uplift a voice of appre¬ 
ciation to the proud tree, asking permission to bask in the 
coolness of his shade at some near time, to express sincere 
thanks for his kindness. 

“Elsie Walden.” 

He telephoned, asking that he might take her to dinner. 
She spent the afternoon with Eddie, who amused her very 
much, but she was constantly thinking of Cornie. The 
thought of conquering this well-known character aroused in 
her the excitement of the chase. 


254 


SHIFTING WINDS 


255 


In the evening she impatiently awaited his arrival, attired 
in a pink gown of soft filmy material. “What a luscious 
pink and white loveliness,” Cornie -mused as he greeted her. 
He was immaculate in his tuxedo. “How would you like to 
try the Shelbourne grill ? ” he asked. 

She nodded her assent and they set forth. The night was 
chilly and damp, the air alive with the tumultuous dashing of 
the ocean on the beach, and filled with the salty spray tossed 
to the breeze. 

“Don’t you feel you are wasting your time with a silly lit¬ 
tle girl just out of school? ” Elsie questioned, after they were 
seated in the Grill. 

“If it be wasting my time, then I want to waste a lot of it 
this way,” Cornie answered smiling. 

“But really, I mean it. Older girls know so much more 
interesting things to talk about.” 

“Interesting to themselves, no doubt,” he grunted. “It is 
your very unconsciousness of your power, your beauty, that 
holds me. How old are you, anyway ? ” 

“Just eighteen,” she replied. “You see I am not afraid to 
tell my age. How old are you ? ” she asked naively. 

He could not lie to this girl. “I am forty,” he replied. “I 
know that sounds very ancient to you.” 

“After all, age doesn’t really count, does it? I know some 
young people who are very old for their age, and some old 
people that are very young for theirs.” 

“I have always claimed that one is only as old as he feels, 
and I have always felt very young,” he defended himself. 

“Doesn’t it make a lot of difference how we live?” she 
asked. “I think if one does not keep up with the times, and 
vegetates in one place, he becomes stale; but if one is ever 
on the search for new sensations, he keeps young and 
joyous.” 

“Well put,” he returned gayly; “that is why I have mar¬ 
ried often. I get stale if I hang around alone, or with men— 
like Eddie.” 


256 


SOUL TOYS 


“Eddie is very nice, I like him very much.” 

“As much as me ? ” he questioned. 

“Oh, no! ” and then she bit her lip in annoyance. “I 
shouldn’t have said that.” 

“Why not ? ” he replied. “To be natural is one way to keep 
young. Why cover—why dissemble our feelings? I smile 
when I feel like it, and keep a straight face when I don’t. 
Please be natural with me! ” 

“I will! ” she said impulsively. “I do like you, so there! ” 

“All I am going to say now,” he ventured slowly, “is that 
I am going to try to make your like grow naturally and 
simply into love, flower-like—as a tree grows.” 

She inclined her head, like a drooping flower, “And do you 
like me?” she asked, without raising her eyes. 

“I would have to use the stronger term if I replied now; 
but it is too soon. I love candor, but candor without the will 
to learn when to use it, casts a shadow called rudeness, and 
I would not be rude.” 

The following days found them riding and walking to¬ 
gether a great deal, but it was sometime before he again 
ventured on the subject of their feelings. Then he felt in a 
confessional mood. 

“I have not always been, what I suppose you would call, a 
good man,” he began in a quiet even tone. 

“I hate goody-good men! ” she assured him. 

He ignored her remark and continued: “I have made of 
Beauty a fetich. It has been my religion! I could not with¬ 
stand the call of a beautiful face or figure.” 

“And that is what attracted you to me?” she remarked 
ironically. 

“Perhaps at first glance, but I have learned from bitter 
experience that beauty, as they say, ‘is only skin deep,’ and 
it was something else in you that appealed to me.” 

“Please tell me what it was,” she urged. 

“I hardly know how to put it, but I think I can call it 


SHIFTING WINDS 


257 


by two names; first, your Youth, and second your Femi¬ 
ninity. By the first, I mean the freshness of your viewpoint 
on life; the newness of sensations to you; the joy of show¬ 
ing you things; and second, your clinging-vineness, if I may 
coin the phrase. I have been used to mature self-reliant 
women, and you awakened in me a fatherly feeling, a pro¬ 
tective instinct. I feel to you as I might feel to my own 
daughter, if I knew her better. ,, 

It was this last remark that struck Elsie like a bomb-shell. 
His love to her was a father’s love—not a sweetheart’s! She 
had forgotten his years, but she could not overlook the chasm 
in their love. Hers was a youthful romance, his an older 
affection. 

From the moment of his confession, she ceased to care 
for him. She looked again for Eddie, whom she had merci¬ 
lessly side-tracked; and while for him she had no more than 
the pleasure of being taken about by any man, she did not 
want to be even seen with Cornie. “They will think I am an 
old woman or a temporary flame; I will not be his play¬ 
thing ! ” she reasoned. 

And so Cornie let a few days go by without attempting to 
see her or send to her. It was his idea that if she was be¬ 
ginning to tire of him it would be better to give her a rest. 
He could not conceive that he would not ultimately succeed 
in his desire to add her to his list of “Wives I Have Known.” 

The first realization that he might not be able to attain his 
aim came to him from Mrs. Baker, who was watching the 
trend of events with an interested eye. 

“I see your friend Eddie has again captivated the beauti¬ 
ful Elsie,” she said, as she came up to him one morning 
while he stood viewing the work of a sand artist, perfecting 
a figure of Lincoln stretched at full length on the sandy 
beach. 

“I am not selfish,” he boasted. 

“May I be frank with you ? ” she suddenly became serious. 


258 


SOUL TOYS 


‘‘Why of course,” he said, surprised at the change in her 
manner. 

“Elsie has admitted to me that her ‘crush/ as she put it, 
on you, has passed away. She said she hoped you would not 
bother her further.” 

Cornie turned pale. He had never before been so ad¬ 
dressed. With an effort, he regained his composure suffi¬ 
ciently to answer her. 

“I thank you for being so blunt. I will do as she wishes. 
I will leave this very evening and not see her again, but 
please tell her that I really did care for her.” 

“I knew you would understand. We older people realize 
when to accept a situation and when to fight. If it is any 
satisfaction to you, she also said that your friend Eddie 
merely amuses her.” 

He did not reply, but took her hand saying: “I thank you.” 

She smiled as he went into the hotel. “An ugly man,” she 
thought, “but with so wonderful a personality that one for¬ 
gets his homeliness when with him. Maybe I would have 
been happy with him, but I doubt it. These kindergarten 
hunters do not make good husbands. I will not report this 
conversation to Elsie. Let the dead bury the dead. I will 
simply tell her he has gone.” 

And so ended Cornie’s Atlantic City romance and Eddie’s 
too, for it was not long after that they read of Elsie’s en¬ 
gagement to a school boy companion. “Eddie, we were both 
too old for her,” Cornie said when he read the announce¬ 
ment. “We must look to more mature pastures.” 

“I told you I wasn’t looking,” Eddie replied peevishly. 

“Nor am I. But the clinging-vine type, that was a new 
one for me,” Cornie agreed with him. 

“There are still a few types you have not met,” Eddie ar¬ 
gued. “You will fall again, I warn you.” 

“Warnings ! Bah! As well try to stop the ocean’s wave as 
prevent a man falling in love.” 


SHIFTING WINDS 


259 


“Ah, but falling in love and attempting to satisfy your pas¬ 
sion for possession of a beautiful thing, that is different,” 
Eddie protested. 

“Well, we shall see—what we shall see,” Cornie replied 
petulantly. “You’ll fall hard one of these days.” 

“You must be made of rubber, the way you bound back 
every time you fall,” was Eddie’s retort. 

It was not so very long after the Atlantic City episode, 
that Eddie said to Cornie, as they were having dinner be¬ 
neath the stars on the Astor Roof, “My capital is running 
pretty low. I have had some awful bad jolts this year.” 

“You know I’d be glad to help you out any time,” Cornie 
told him with some annoyance. 

“It isn’t a loan I need; I want an addition to my princi¬ 
pal. Grand-dad, from whom all my blessings flow, has been 
getting tighter and tighter.” 

“Going to try the market again ? ” 

“No, I am cured of that. I was thinking of a rich wife.” 

“So, that’s the rub! Never marry for money! ” 

“You get more than when you do for beauty.” 

“Oh, but I could afford to take a chance.” * 

“Divorce courts are as open for bad money matches as for 
beauty ones! ” 

“You can’t make a rich wife pay you alimony!” Cornie 
laughingly declared. 

“No, but you can get, while the getting is good.” 

“You mercenary man!” Cornie dubbed him. “But good 
luck to you, the rich ones are not all old or homely.” 

“I have a safe and sane body in mind.” 

“What do you mean by that? ” 

“Safe enough, not to have to worry about losing her, and 
I think, at least I hope, sufficiently sane to understand that, 
no matter what I may say, I am still marrying her for her 
money only.” 

“Who is this satisfactory creature ? ” 


260 


SOUL TOYS 


“Our mutual friend, Mrs. Baker! ” 

“Mrs. Baker ! She is old enough to be your mother! ” 

“Mothers are usually very pleasant companions.” 

“Except when they tie their little boys to their apron 
strings.” 

“Every string can be broken.” 

“Even purse strings ? ” 

“Wish me luck, Cornie, I need the money.” 

“You’ll need more than luck to get her money. A crow¬ 
bar would be better for you to wish for.” 

It was an immaculate man who called on Mrs. Baker— 
widow of Albert Baker, vice-president of the Unity Insur¬ 
ance Company, reported to have been worth many millions. 

With an ingratiating smile, Eddie presented himself. 

The widow warmly welcomed him, and soon explained that 
she had no children and had been the sole recipient of her 
husband’s wealth. 

She sensed his desire to please her, and accepted with 
alacrity his invitation to dinner for the next evening. 

He did not notice on his first visit, but at dinner discovered, 
that at times she was quite deaf. “If only she can hear my 
requests for money, I will not care,” he solaced himself. 

All of her portable jewelry was displayed on her person, 
when he took her to the Ritz on their second excursion. He 
could not but note the surprised glances his friends gave 
them. One met him alone the next day and asked who the 
relative was that he had out. 

With some dignity, Eddie replied, “My future bride.” 

“Good God! ” his friend exclaimed. “She will think it’s 
her silver or golden wedding! ” 

“You remind me so much of poor Mr. Baker,” she said 
one afternoon while they were having tea at the Plaza. “He 
always had so little to say when my friends were about.” 

“His thoughts were probably too deep for expression,” 
Eddie declared, 


SHIFTING WINDS 


261 


“Yes, he was a deep thinker,” she answered. “A penny 
for your thoughts,” she said a moment later. 

“It would cost you more than that,” he thought, “and 
me, a rich widow, if you knew them;” but aloud, he said: 
“Really, I am afraid you will become conceited if I tell you.” 

“Oh, do tell me! I love to hear pretty things.” 

Eddie gulped. It was hard to bring it out, but he strove 
manfully to play his part. 

“I was thinking that you did not look a day older than that 
girl over there,” he nodded toward a charming flapper. 

“You flatterer! ” she said; but her pleasure was plainly 
apparent. 

Their courtship was not a long one. Eddie was the most 
desirable of the little group of old bachelors, gay widowers, 
and flippant youths trying to marry her money. 

And so they were married, and Eddie left Cornie’s house 
and went to live in his wife’s home—“hung up his hat,”— 
his friends commented. 

Nothing had been said before their marriage, of their 
intended financial arrangements. 

It was shortly afterwards that Eddie suggested the mat¬ 
ter of his financial necessity, to be met with an unexpected 
rebuff: “Mr. Baker arranged his estate so that I could not 
touch the principal for ten years after his death. It’s only 
three, you know, and it takes all of my income to keep up 
the house and clothe myself.” 

“Seven years before I can get hold of it,” Eddie groaned. 

“It is like pulling a tooth,” he told Cornie, “to get a cent 
out of the old woman. I wonder what she thinks I married 
her for anyway—and you ought to see her in the morning! ” 

“The sequel of your love affair is not very cheering,” 
Cornie commiserated him, “but nothing ever daunted you, 
Eddie. You will find a way.” 

“You bet I will! ” he answered. “I have an idea now.” 

“Let’s hear it,” Cornie said. 


262 


SOUL TOYS 


“Well, she has a little Pekinese dog that she fairly wor¬ 
ships. I am going to bring the cur over here and pretend 
‘Cutie’ ran away. Her heartbroken mistress will offer a re¬ 
ward and I will conduct the negotiations for the return, 
pocketing the said reward.” He looked up in egotistical 
pride. 

“You’ll not get enough to pay for your trouble,” Cornie 
laughed tumultuously. 

“She will pay ten thousand to get him back; you will see.” 

“I thought she hasn’t the cash.” 

“She has enough, that she had before her hubby died. I 
found that out. But she wants to hold on to it.” 

So the poor dog was sacrificed to Eddie’s need and had to 
leave her happy home for a time, while her mistress excitedly 
told Eddie to hire detectives and offer a reward. But all his 
suggestions could not get her to raise it beyond one hundred 
dollars. So ‘Cutie’ returned and Eddie sadly spent the hun¬ 
dred, drowning his disappointment. 

He met Cornie on Broadway one noon and the latter 
asked, “How’s the better half ? ” 

“Better half,” he chuckled. “Bitter half, you mean.” 

“Is it as bad as that ? ” Cornie smiled as he said, “I 
thought the older they get, the more sensible they are.” 

“You have the wrong word again, Cornie. You meant 
sensitive —not sensible.” 

“Well, well, old chap, that is what you get for not marry¬ 
ing for love.” 

“Love! Hell! How many marriages are love matches? 
Very few,” he answered himself; “other motives, not always 
money, but the desire for companionship—for a home—for 
children—mutual likes or dislikes—a passionate desire to 
possess what cannot be secured in any other way—but rarely 
love, cause man and woman to take the fatal vow.” 

“Most of them turn out pretty good, too,” Cornie af¬ 
firmed. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


263 


“It is more likely the love matches that will get into the 
divorce courts, than the other kind,” Eddie rambled on. “The 
impetuous lover is very liable to fall for other women, and 
similarly, the moon-struck girl for other men.” 

“But isn’t a love marriage the perfect one? ” Cornie urged 
him. 

“In novels, yes, but seldom in real life. The latter is so 
changeable that what the man saw that he loved, in his 
fiancee, often fails to appear in the wife. The attentive in¬ 
tended may become the blase husband. Love is the hardest 
thing to preserve, usually it is the mutual condonation of the 
other’s faults and the cropping out of unexpected virtues 
after marriage, that holds them together. Once in a while 
you will see a married couple ^here the wife is still the 
queen, though the years have turned gray her hair; and her 
husband is her king, though bowed with age. Even that 
love, I contend, is the result of years of close association, the 
development of kindred ideas, and the close tie that children 
make. I doubt whether the youthful romance could be dis¬ 
tinguished in the later love.” Eddie stated his cynical ideas 
most positively. 

“Then there is still hope for you and your wife? ” Cornie 
came back. 

“Just like there is for the lion and the lamb to lie down 
together in peace and contentment. That woman thinks so 
much of a penny, she would haggle with St. Peter, if there 
were a price for admission through his pearly gates! ” 

The next time Eddie met Cornie, he was beaming with de¬ 
light. 

“Pray tell me, what is the cause of this gay mood ? ” 
Cornie inquired. 

“It’s all right, I have found the way.” 

“I assume you refer to getting hold of your wife’s 
money ? ” 

“Just that,” was the reply. “I discovered that she had the 


264 


SOUL TOYS 


power to make a will after four years, and could thus dis¬ 
pose of her husband’s estate as she wished. So she has 
made a will in my favor, which will take effect as soon as 
the four years are up.” 

“But she has to die first,” Cornie taunted him. 

“Oh, I forgot about that. Sure, she has to die before I 
get it, but she can’t live forever.” 

“And she can make a new will any time.” Cornie took the 
wind out of his sails. 

“I never thought of that,” Eddie brooded, as he walked 
away dejectedly. 

At last Eddie gave up the attempt to pry his wife’s money 
away from her, and began to neglect her. Taking a room 
away from her home, he started going about with other 
women. 

She soon tired of this state of affairs and one afternoon 
came wailing to Cornie. 

“My dear Mr. Wildner, whatever shall I do?” she com¬ 
plained. “My husband is running around with horrid wo¬ 
men! They have stolen him from me. He hardly ever 
comes home and never takes me anywhere.” She began to 
weep. 

“My dear Mrs. Philbrick,” Cornie mocked her, “you fail 
to realize the discrepancy between your age and that of your 
husband.” 

“What has that to do with it ? ” she asked sharply, as she 
wiped away her tears. 

“Whenever you see a young man marry an old woman, or 
a young girl marry an old man, look for the nigger in the 
wood pile.” 

“Now what do you mean by that?” 

“Don’t fool yourself, Eddie married you for your money. 
You ought to have known that. You didn’t give it to him, 
and he ceased to try to get it, that’s all.” 

“If I thought he didn’t care for me for myself alone, I 
would get a divorce! ” she declared vehemently. 


SHIFTING WINDS 


265 


“Then you better proceed at once, because that certainly 
is the fact,” he affirmed bluntly. His patience was outworn 
with this niggardly woman. “If you had realized that your 
money could give you your husband’s company, and per¬ 
haps in time his respect, and had been liberal with him, he 
would not have drawn away from you.” 

She began to cry again. “I didn’t want to be left penni¬ 
less,” she moaned. 

“I understood that your husband’s estate was so fixed 
that you could only get the income, so why hold on to what 
you had besides ? ” 

“I was not going to have my money thrown away 1 ” she 
blazed. 

“Rather your money than your happiness,” he retorted 
curtly. 

She opened the purse strings a little, shortly thereafter, 
and for a time she and Eddie went about together, but more 
often he went his way and she hers, much to Cornie’s 
amusement. 

Since Eddie’s marriage Cornie was left to seek new com¬ 
panions, and started to go about with a wild set of young 
boys who welcomed him as an old experienced guide to 
exciting haunts. 

One of these lads insisted upon Cornie visiting him at his 
father’s estate near Rhinebeck on the Hudson. 

The family were seated on the terrace overlooking the 
surrounding country—with the massive Palisades looming in 
the distance—rows of Gibraltars. 

“You were not originally a New Yorker?” Cornie in¬ 
quired of his host. 

“No, I came from New England, from the country.” 

“You are the typical New Yorker, then. He comes from 
the country, and keeps going till he makes enough money to 
get back to the country again.” 

“You are right, I was not happy until I had secured a place 
where I could walk and ride about and breathe.” 


266 


SOUL TOYS 


His host’s sister was visiting there also. Her husband 
was abroad. She was a very beautiful woman of about 
Cornie’s age, and he flirted outrageously with her, but left 
at the end of his visit without a pang of regret. 

His youthful companions led him at so merry a pace that 
he found it necessary, from time to time, to take a few 
weeks’ cure at one or the other of the health resorts. 

French Lick was his usual place of pilgrimage and there 
he went early in the Spring of each year. “To boil out my 
sins,” he would tell his friends, and “to drink enough water 
to extinguish passion’s fire.” But the latter was too strongly 
entrenched within him—and in time the sins again grew— 
and passion’s fire blazed anew. 


Part VIII 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 







CHAPTER XXVIII 


“City residences are really stop-over places for the few 
weeks that come between the seasons,” Horto Vanduyne re¬ 
marked to Cornie as they were seated in the lobby of the 
French Lick Springs Hotel. “Spring and Fall find one here 
or at White Sulphur; Winter in the South or California, 
and Summer at Southampton or Newport. In between, one 
must do shopping and go for a visit here and there.” 

“Most assuredly,” Cornie agreed good-naturedly; “a real 
New Yorker would feel that he was committing a mortal 
sin if he remained in the city over the week-end.” 

“Don’t you adore it here? There is an atmosphere dif¬ 
ferent than anywhere else,” she declared. 

“I always like French Lick,” he replied. “One golfs and 
rides, dances and gambles, as everywhere, but the difference 
is, that here everyone, old and young, do the same thing. It 
makes gambling, for instance, seem eminently respectable, 
if you have a white-haired grandmother seated next to you, 
playing roulette.” 

“Of course the waters don’t interest you.” 

“To the contrary, I adhere to the rules of the cure re¬ 
ligiously. I drink and walk according to Hoyle.” 

“But do you abstain from liquor? You know, they claim 
it will kill you, if you mix the two! ” 

“Well, I have always taken my little drink here, as else¬ 
where, and it has never affected me. I am still here to tell 
the tale.” 

“But really, Cornie, I wouldn’t mix the kind you get to¬ 
day,” Jim’s wife advised him seriously. 

“Since when have you become a crepe-hanger ? ” he asked. 

“I am not a pessimist, but I don’t believe in taking un- 


269 


270 


SOUL TOYS 


necessary chances. You know how many people have been 
killed from drinking the poisonous stuff handed out by 
bootleggers, and how many have become blind from it! 
Don’t be foolish, Cornie.” 

“My own bootlegger-extraordinary and purveyor to his 
majesty, Myself, has assured me that the stuff I get from 
him could not be worse,” Cornie replied ironically. 

But he recalled Horto’s warning, when, after he had 
left Brown’s, the popular gambling club, with a party of 
gentlemen, and had partaken of a plentiful supply of whis¬ 
key that one of the party brought forth during a protracted 
poker game, he felt a sinking sensation and became very 
dizzy. He managed to get to his room; then called the house 
physician, and told him what he had been drinking. The 
doctor sent down for a sample for analysis. Cornie became 
very sick and each succeeding day noticed that his sight 
seemed to be growing dimmer and dimmer. Finally he lost 
it completely. 

The chemist reported that the sample of liquor was al¬ 
most pure wood alcohol, and the doctor held that either that 
of itself, or mixing it with the Spring water, had caused 
Cornie’s blindness. 

Slowly he recovered his health but not his sight. For 
one whose greatest delight was to admire beautiful women, 
it was the heighth of torture to be unable to see. The doc¬ 
tors held out hope that with complete rest and quiet there 
was a possibility that he might in time see again but were 
very doubtful. 

Eddie came and took him back to New York. The nu¬ 
merous specialists consulted could not help him but sug¬ 
gested the mountain air. 

Eddie, of his own accord, notified Jean of his brother’s 
predicament and the latter came at once. He overpowered 
his hard feelings toward Cornie, and insisted upon taking 
him to “Soul’s Desire.” He could not refuse his brother’s 
call when he needed him. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


271 


In the quiet of the Catskills Cornie had time to ponder 
on the strange current of his life. Here he was, after hav¬ 
ing had three wives, dependent on his brother and his first 
wife, now his brother’s, for care and comfort! 

Clare had no other feeling than that of pity for him, and 
Jean felt again a brotherly affection. The years had worn 
out the resentment that both had toward him. 

Many were the confidential talks that the three had to¬ 
gether. 

“We lead a very placid and calm life here,” Jean said one 
evening shortly after Cornie’s arrival. 

“I could never be happy here, I live on excitement,” his 
brother admitted. “I seek always those charming shocks that 
the sight of a beautiful woman brings; that gratifying hu¬ 
man experience that her presence gives; in a word, I must 
have constantly new sensations.” 

“You believe in action, Cornie,” Clare stated, “Jean and 
I, in contemplation.” 

“You used to like pretty swift going yourself,” Cornie 
reminded her. 

“I know I did, but I found that by action only you per¬ 
mit your facilities of appreciation to grow prematurely old. 
Your senses will not stand constant .jars; they become 
atrophied, hardened and not sensitive to anything else. The 
world of thought and the philosophy of life, all the different 
planes than outward bodily beauty, are hidden below the 
rhinoceros hide of your Beauty Cult! They cannot be pene¬ 
trated to and are non-existent for you,” she preached. 

“I understand. Just as I cannot see you, or appreciate 
beauty now, so before, I could see nothing else,” he con¬ 
ceded. 

Clare was somewhat nonplused by his concrete example. 

“Man’s senses are always the same,” Jean contributed. 
“But so many are to-day one-sided in their use of them. 
I myself am too contemplative and not active enough.” 


272 


SOUL TOYS 


“You are an exception,” Cornie said. “We have become 
a nation of doers and ceased to be thinkers.” 

“Without thought,” Clare explained, “action is meaning¬ 
less.” 

“The war had a great deal to do with it,” Jean added. 
“We were so active that we had no time to think of the great 
verities of life. We were primitive savages again, without 
thought of more than our daily existence.” 

“I suppose our good aunt, Mother Justine, will say this 
blindness has come to me as a penalty for my wicked life,” 
Cornie said rather peevishly. 

Clare did not know just what to reply, for this very 
thought had come to her. No other thing than the inability 
to see the Beauty that he had always worshipped, could be 
expected to impress on Cornie the futility, the evanescence 
of his cult. While she sought for something to say, Jean 
exclaimed, “You brought on your present condition yourself. 
If you had not taken that liquor, it would not have hap¬ 
pened.” 

“Well, I suppose Aunt Mary will think that Satan made 
me take it,” he persisted. 

“Here comes someone! ” Clare interrupted, as a car turned 
into the road leading to “Soul’s Desire.” 

“It’s Nate and Enoch!” Jean shouted as it drew nearer. 

“Hello, there! ” he called; and as they came up on the 
porch, “You know Cornie,—this is Rabbi Felsnik and Enoch 
Glynn.” 

“Glad to meet you again, gentlemen. I cannot say to see 
you.” 

“So sorry about it, old man,” Glynn commiserated. “But 
it will all come out all right. Things always do.” 

“Except when they don’t,” Cornie smiled as he replied. 

“Well, we have to take the hard with the easy, I suppose,” 
interjected the Rabbi. “If life were all pleasure, we would 
not appreciate it as we should,” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


273 


“We never really appreciate what blessings we have, until 
we lose them, ,, Cornie sanctioned his views. 

“Very true, we live too much from day to day; a hand 
to mouth existence; take things as they come, ,, asserted 
Glynn. 

“And when we have concluded an episode in our lives, 
we like to think that we can seal it up like an envelope and 
lay it away in our memory until we are ready to call it forth; 
but like an aching tooth, nothing we have ever done can 
really be forgotten, because it has become a part of our¬ 
selves,’’ the Rabbi set forth. “You should be thankful that 
you can draw on your memory to keep visions before your 
eyes.” 

“And such sights, eh, Mr. Wildner?” Glynn bellowed as 
he gave him a dig in the ribs. “I know you always were a 
great admirer of beautiful women.” 

“That only makes it harder to bear,” Cornie replied 
sadly. “It is no act of piety for a weak, feeble man, with 
no appetite, to fast; nor is it hard for one who never saw 
Beauty, to have his sight taken away. A beautiful woman is 
sunlight to the eye and honey to the palate.” 

“Everyone admires Beauty,” Clare stated concisely, “but 
it is not all, it is merely the outward expression. Just as we 
were saying when you gentlemen came, we are to-day too 
active and not contemplative enough; that is, all but my 
husband. The Beauty Cult is an active thing. You remem¬ 
ber, Cornie, I called your crowd the Heart-Mates. It lives 
while the heart beats. Jean and his friends were Soul- 
Mates. They lived in an ethereal element, a thoughtful plane. 
And thought needs no heart beat, it goes on from generation 
to generation.” 

“The sight of a beautiful woman,” Cornie ignored Clare’s 
interruption, “affected me as burning coal does frozen water, 
when dropped into a goblet filled with it.” 

“I think Cornie, a better comparison,” Clare jeered at him, 


274 


SOUL TOYS 


“is that you were a lion longing to tear the martyr to Beauty 
into shreds with the claws of your sensuous desires.” 

“There’s a hot one! ” Glynn shouted. 

Cornie shrugged his shoulders expressively. “My cult, 
as you call it, is not a new one. The ancient Greeks under¬ 
stood the value of Beauty. It has an ageless allure.” 

“But you must realize that Beauty and Brains do not al¬ 
ways travel together,” Glynn said sonorously. “One cannot 
live on Beauty alone.” 

“To the contrary,” the Rabbi replied, “many not only live 
on Beauty but by beauty as well.” 

“I am certain from my own ‘Golden Sphinx,’ that a silent 
beauty is also not all to be desired,” was Cornie’s concession. 

“Your Golden Sphinx?” the Rabbi said quizzically. 

“My last wife, Christine Ives, of the Follies,” Cornie ex¬ 
plained. 

“Oh, I see,” said the Rabbi; “silence is golden, but you 
prefer talkative brass.” 

“What do you say to a little walk?” Glynn inquired of 
Cornie. He thought the conversation was drifting into too 
dangerous channels when the latter’s wives became the topic, 
especially in the presence of a former one and her present 
husband. 

Cornie replied in the affirmative and Glynn took him by the 
arm and led him away. 

After they had left, the Rabbi said to Clare and Jean, 
“What a dreadful pity to be so afflicted. Do the physicians 
give any hope ? ” 

“It seems only nature can help him. Time alone will tell,” 
Jean answered. 

“I have no doubt that with his passionate love of Beauty, 
it was the one thing he feared. Is it not strange that so 
often the very thing we fear most, is the one thing that 
happens to us ? ” 

“I suppose that is why the Scientists eliminate fear,” Clare 
speculated. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


275 


“But they have not driven away disease or death, they 
merely meet them in an optimistic way instead of with our 
usual pessimism, ,, was Jean’s response. 

“It proves what an illusion Cornie’s ideas were. He has 
nothing to fall back on but the remembrance, the mental pic¬ 
tures of his beauties. His education he used only to appear 
clever, never for deep constructive thinking. He broods 
constantly over his loss of sight,” Clare sympathized. 

“But even his earthly visions are something,” the Rabbi 
stated. 

Toward evening the Rabbi and Glynn returned to the city. 
The Scientist had tried to turn Cornie’s thoughts to his be¬ 
lief, but the latter could not understand that universal love 
which is its basis. Love, to him, spelt passion; and the 
phrase, “God is love,” was meaningless. 

A few days later a long distance telephone call came from 
Mother Justine, inquiring if Cornelia had come home. 

“Why no!” Jean replied. “Cornelia isn’t here—isn’t she 
at school ? ” He did not think of his brother being within 
earshot. 

The Mother explained that Cornelia had gone downtown 
with several students under a nun’s chaperonage, to do some 
necessary shopping, but had not returned with them. 

Cornie had felt his way to Jean. “What is it?” He in¬ 
sisted upon knowing the message. “Tell me what about 
Cornelia—I heard you say she wasn’t here—where is she ? ” 

“Just wait a minute,” Jean told him, “until I hear what 
Aunt Mary has to say.” 

“Cornelia asked permission to go into a drugstore they 
were passing, to get some toothpaste. The others waited 
outside. When she did not come out within a reasonable 
time, the nun went in and found Cornelia was not there. It 
seems the store had two exits, one on another street than 
where they were waiting. Apparently she had gone out that 
way. All they could do was to return without her.” 

“When did this happen? ” Jean asked. 


276 


SOUL TOYS 


“Yesterday afternoon. I thought she probably had gone 
home, or to some friends, but when I did not hear from her 
this morning, I thought it best to call you.” 

“Then you haven’t any idea where she is now! ” Jean’s 
voice quivered with the emotion he felt. His little girl was 
gone! He could not withhold the exclamation. The words 
were hardly out of his mouth before he thought of their 
possible effect on her father. He swung around and saw 
Cornie swaying back and forth. His grip on the back of a 
chair was all that was keeping him from falling. All his 
strength seemed to have left him. 

Dropping the receiver Jean ran to Cornie’s side and tak¬ 
ing hold of him called : “Clare ! Clare! Come quick! ” 

“What is the matter ? ” she asked as she came running. 

“Cornelia’s lost! My God! Cornelia’s lost! ” was all 
Cornie could say as Clare gently forced him into a chair. 

“All right, Aunt Mary. I called Clare to look after Cor¬ 
nie. He overheard and naturally is upset,” explained Jean 
over the phone. 

“I hope nothing has happened to the poor girl. I can’t 
imagine where she can be, or believe that she would stay 
away of her own accord,” the Mother continued. 

“Well, there is no use conjuring up things. I’ll go into 
the city at once, and after I have notified the police I’ll run 
out and see you.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, what’s happened?” Clare asked with 
a frightened catch in her voice. 

“Cornelia has been away from school since yesterday aft¬ 
ernoon,” Jean said, and then repeated to them both what the 
Mother had told him. 

“I’ll go into the city now—report to the police, and en¬ 
gage a good detective to get busy right off. They’ll find 
her. She may only be with some friends.” 

Clare was quietly sobbing. Cornelia was as dear to her as 
if she had been her own child. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


277 


Jean went over and put his arm about her. “Now be 
sensible,” he whispered; “we must keep up for his sake,” 
pointing to the blind man. 

Cornie sat stunned. “Fm helpless,” he said finally. “Pm 
useless, I might as well be dead! I can’t even help to look 
for my own child; and believe me, I know what a beautiful 
young girl all alone in New York is up against, too! ” 

Clare shuddered, “Had she been kidnapped, or lured away 
to become one of the nameless thousands who each year 
disappear from view as if swallowed by the earth?” was 
the fearful thought that raced madly through her brain. 

“What can I do ? ” Cornie asked wearily. 

“M phone you as soon as I hear anything,” Jean told 
him. “You keep a stiff upper lip—that’s your job.” 

Jean reported the disappearance to the police, engaged a 
great detective to work on the case, and then with one of 
the latter’s men visited the drugstore and Aunt Mary, but no 
further information could be obtained and he returned thor¬ 
oughly discouraged. 

Daily reports were received from the detective, but the 
days slipped by without any word of encouragement. 

Cornie was beside himself with grief. It seemed that his 
own affliction gave him time to consider how he had shirked 
the duties of fatherhood, which he had slipped from under 
as one does from a loose coat, casting them upon Clare and 
Jean. He had proven faithless to Meta, whom in his inner¬ 
most being he felt was his only real wife, the only one who 
had evoked responding affection. Now, he was helpless to 
aid his child—her child! 

He paced the verandah like a caged animal. “ ’Nelia was 
just eighteen,” he thought, “an age when a girl appears far 
more matured than she actually is.” He recalled Elsie 
Walden’s response to his addresses. “Eighteen is an im¬ 
pressionable age; her youthful, sparkling beauty would at¬ 
tract men, as a drop of honey calls many flies,” were his 
troubled thoughts. 


278 


SOUL TOYS 


At night he would lie sleepless, pondering over the place 
where she might be. He knew the by-paths of New York 
Bohemian life; the inmost recesses of Greenwich Village; 
the hidden resorts on the little side streets off the bowery, as 
well as the blatant, open places of night life, but he couldn’t 
explain to anyone how only a certain taxi driver knew the 
road to one place and that someone else had to direct you 
to another. 

And then suddenly, one day, as he sat in the sunlight, a 
flicker penetrated his sight! At first he did not know what 
had come over him. When he realized that he could dis¬ 
tinguish light even the least bit, he cried out in a manner that 
brought everyone in the house to him. 

“I can see! I can see! Now I can search for my daugh¬ 
ter ! ” 

But it was many long, weary weeks before his gradually 
increasing vision grew to the point where he could distin¬ 
guish objects, and finally became so that he could go about 
by himself. The occulists said that the fresh mountain air, 
the absolute quiet, and more than all else the urge, the in¬ 
centive to find his daughter, had all assisted Nature in over¬ 
coming the poison that had taken away his sight. 

As soon as he was able to do so he set out to aid in the 
search. Every few days he would call Jean to inquire if he 
had any news, but he did not return to “Soul’s Desire” for 
many months. 

Day and night he ceaselessly continued his hunt, assisted 
from time to time by his brother. 

He was positive that she was being held somewhere against 
her will, and so sought all possible avenues of information to 
the underworld, but in vain. 

Then the thought would come to him that perhaps his 
daughter had inherited some of his own unruly tendencies, 
unholy desires. “God knows where she is or how low she 
has fallen! Meta, I have been unfaithful to you! I de- 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


279 


serted your child. Oh, that I had been true to you—to our 
little one! ” was his troubled thought. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Cornelia Wildner at eighteen was an inverted picture of 
her father. Whereas he loved beauty as it appeared to him, 
she was the concrete evidence of that beauty. All his pas¬ 
sionate desire to grasp and hold the beauty of women seemed 
transferred to her in an actual appreciation of her own blos¬ 
soming fairness. She realized her attractiveness, not in an 
egotistical or vain way, but in the spirit of enjoying the 
praise that looking at her caused others to give. She was 
never so happy as when posing, an amusement which she 
proposed so often that the girls had nicknamed her, “ ’Nelia, 
the living picture.” While outwardly modest, she knew no 
shame in exhibiting her perfect figure to her girl chums in 
the privacy of their rooms. Before the day she was missed, 
she had expressed many times to these friends her desire 
to see the world. Reading in one of the Sunday supple¬ 
ments the life story of Audrey Munson, “The world’s most 
perfect model,” she had become imbued with the idea that if 
only she could get the opportunity, she would outshine this 
star. 

These facts ’Nelia’s school companions were afraid to tell 
the sisters, for fear of exposing their own wrong doing in 
enjoying the forbidden papers and room entertainments. 
They would never have become known had not a lady opera¬ 
tive of the detective hired by Jean asked Mother Justine’s 
permission to interview Cornelia’s girl companions. 

The necessary consent being obtained, she succeeded in 
getting the information that the nuns had been unable to 
secure. So it was that ’Nelia’s longing to be an artist’s model, 
and her predilection for posing, were discovered. 

Hearing these things, Cornie conceived the idea that she 


280 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


281 


might have become an artist’s model. He again opened his 
old studio, just off Washington Square, which he had left 
untouched since he had acquired the old house in which it 
was located, and re-entered the Bohemian life of Greenwich 
Village, hoping to find some word of his daughter. 

It was from an old studio acquaintance that he first heard 
of the beautiful new model who was astonishing the sculptors 
and painters of the Village with her freshness and piquancy 
of beauty and perfection of figure. From studio to studio 
he travelled, walking in on many men and women at work 
in the Bohemian custom, which leaves the door opened or un¬ 
latched, even where models are posing in “the altogether,” 
hunting for her with the hope that she might be his daughter. 

One morning, opening quietly the studio door of an old 
friend—a man about his own age—he saw posing as Psyche, 
his own child! 

He hesitated: how should he approach her—how win her 
back? This was not the place nor the manner in which he 
had thought to discover her. He had imagined himself 
fighting to release her from her captors, and here she stood 
free to go! 

He stood silently staring at her until the sculptor gave the 
signal to rest and turned to him. 

“Well, if I never-” Before the man could say any¬ 

thing further, Cornie advanced to him. “Could I speak to 
you privately, Joe?” 

The man addressed recognized the agitation of his visi¬ 
tor—who unsteadily sought a chair. 

Without comment the sculptor took out his watch, glanced 
at it, then said to the model: “That will be all for this morn¬ 
ing. Come back at two, please.” 

“Does—does she have to go out through this room?” 
Cornie asked as the model disappeared into a dressing room. 

“Why, yes, sure, no other way of getting out. But say, 
old man, what’s the matter? Let me give you a bracer.” 



282 


SOUL TOYS 


He went over to a cellarette, took out a bottle and poured 
a stiff drink of whiskey. “You look as if you had just 
seen a ghost,” he said as he held out the glass. 

Cornie still sat staring at the doorway through which the 
girl had passed. “No! No! I thank you. Tve sworn 
off. I am all right. Joe, that girl is my child! ” 

“What ? Didn’t know you had a daughter! She never 
said—why she didn’t seem to know you,” the other expressed 
his astonishment. 

“I’ve—I’ve been a mighty poor father. I haven’t seen 
much of her. She ran away from convent. I have been 
searching for her—almost a year.” 

“No, you don’t say so! That’s damn interesting. She 
has been posing in the Village for some time—in constant 
demand. Better watch her, Cornie! They call her the cold 
beauty. She let’s them get just so intimate—go only so 
far—and then they get a smart slap in the face! She hasn’t 
missed her step yet, but she’ll bear watching.” 

“Thanks for the good word, Joe. You bet I will watch 
her now. Introduce her to me—but don’t mention my 
name, I want to break it gently to her.” 

“Here comes the little lady now,” said the sculptor, an¬ 
nouncing her re-entrance. 

“Meet the Village’s rarest find,” he continued, “Nearly 
Wild ! That’s her name, and that is what she has made us! ” 

“I think I found the Village,” she smilingly jested. 

“Nearly Wild,” Cornie said, hesitantly; “abbreviation for 
Cornelia Wildner, ’Nelia for short.” 

The girl stared at him in astonishment. “How did you 
know ? ” she demanded. 

“May I satisfy your curiosity over the luncheon table in¬ 
stead of here ? ” he asked in return. 

“Yes. Your face looks familiar, but I can’t place you,” 
she assented. 

He took her arm as he said, “Good-bye Joe. I’ll see you 
later.” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


283 


Cornie was fascinated by this delectable girl, whom he 
could not realize was actually his own child. Whether he 
would have felt such a fatherly and possessory feeling to¬ 
ward her if she had not also pleased his sense of beauty, is 
questionable. 

Not overly tall, with a straightness that tended to increase 
her heighth, also added to by a thick, heavy head of black 
bobbed natural curls, Cornelia’s body seemed exactly to fit 
her face or her face to fit her body, depending upon which 
was viewed first. Her face was very round—her cheeks 
oval and smooth as velvet. Her eyes, below very black 
brows, were a velvety black too. Their bigness might ex¬ 
plain the fire, the sparkle, and the calmness they were able 
to express at will. Her nose was small and rounded—her 
lips a bit too tiny for a perfect Cupid’s bow without the as¬ 
sistance of a lip-stick. She was a girl who would demand 
homage, she was the queenly type; a girl who wohld dare, 
she was unafraid; a girl who would suffer, she was loyal; a 
girl who would accomplish her end at any cost, she was 
determined. 

At the moment when Cornie walked away from his friend’s 
studio with this strange girl he felt a closer feeling, a 
deeper affection for her than he ever had felt toward anyone 
else. The wish to protect her, to keep her always by him, 
was uppermost in his mind; but he knew he must handle the 
situation with great delicacy, if he did not wish to lose what 
he had just found. 

’‘You don’t recognize me? ” he began. 

She shook her head. “You look like someone I know— 
but-” 

“I am your father,” he told her in a very matter-of-fact 
tone. 

“You are my father! ” she echoed. Then looking at him 
closely, “Yes—now I remember you. It is curious, that I 
have seen you so seldom that I did not recognize you.” 



284 


SOUL TOYS 


“Not very good to look at,” he admitted lightly, but 
there is a lot beneath these features.” 

“A lot of what—money?” she asked gayly. 

“Not only that, but an affection for you! ” 

“You never have shown that you cared! ” she drew him 
up sharply. 

“I know, but I never really knew you, nor realized how 
much you meant to me, until you were lost.” 

“Lost?” she demanded. “You mean until I escaped from 
prison! ” 

“Oh, come now, it wasn’t as bad as all that! From what 
the girls tell me, you had some pretty good times.” 

“Underhanded, secretly; I detested it all! I must feel 
life! I was cramped, choked. I simply could not stand it, 
and I will not go back! ” she asserted positively. 

“You don’t have to,” he agreed. “Let’s go in this old 
French place. It will be quiet, and we can talk.” 

It had become quite second nature for Cornie to paint in 
glowing fashion to his intended wives what marriage with 
him would mean, but never before had he used the brush 
with such sweeping hand. Dipping deep in the paint of his 
experiences and his travels, he laid a dazzling background 
for their future life. Together, he told her, they would roam 
the world at will, seeking adventure in every quarter. He 
would protect her and lead her. 

With broad strokes he put on his hopes and longings for 
the future, which could only be fulfilled with her to share 
them. In clear, bright colors, he laid her future life before 
her—all that love and money could do for one with her 
beauty! No convents, no schools were on the canvas, but 
private tutors, music, art, all would be taken up with him. 
He would start over again, grow with her, achieve with her, 
and enjoy life with her! 

She listened spell-bound to the wonderful picture he was 
creating for her. He had touched a responsive chord in his 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


285 


own child, and a wave of pleasurable emotion surged over 
her. 

Only when he finally stopped to see the effect he had 
made, did she mention her guardians. 

“What will Aunt Clare and Uncle Jean say to all this?” 
Her question was as much to herself as to him. 

With an unconscious air of proprietorship he declared, 
“/ am your father! ” 

“But they were so good to me—and still—and still—I 
would run away from them as I did from Mother Justine! 
They call me ‘Nearly Wild’! Sometimes I think I am all 
wild, for the quiet and peace of my life with uncle and aunt 
at ‘Soul’s Desire,’ seemed to strangle me, ever since I can re¬ 
member. I sometimes felt as if I would jump off the moun¬ 
tain ledge into the great Unknown, rather than stifle! ” Her 
confession was uttered with an almost breathless intensity. 

Cornie looked at her in astonishment. Here was his very 
soul, unbared to his view! Her wild disdain of a stifled 
life had found expression in his own strange Beauty Cult. 

“I don’t want to think about my soul! ” she cried, stamp¬ 
ing her little foot. “Uncle Jean always has his eyes up¬ 
lifted. I want to live here—now! Take me, you under¬ 
stand me as no one else! ” She threw herself at him, as the 
conviction grew upon her that he offered a real escape. 

“We will forget everything but our own pleasure,” he said 
selfishly. “I will make you the most envied girl in the whole 
wide world! But you must gradually take the good things I 
have in store for you. I don’t want you to be a brainless 
beauty. You must combine your Uncle Jean’s beauty of 
spirit with my love of physical beauty.” 

He was trying to tell her, that she must be not only a 
Love-Mate, a Heart-Mate, but a real Soul-Mate too. As 
Keats was the Soul-Mate of Clare and Jean, he wanted his 
daughter to be his Soul-Mate. He did not wish her for his 
Love Toy, but for his Soul Toy. It was his soul, that had 


286 


SOUL TOYS 


been called by his own child, slipping, slipping, into the prim¬ 
rose path that he knew so well. But his soul was having a 
difficult time penetrating his Beauty Cult, breaking through 
the layers, the rind of his life’s wishes, that had concealed it 
for so long. 

“We will go back to ‘Soul’s Desire,’ and let your aunt and 
uncle know that I have found you,” he decided. 

So up to “Soul’s Desire” they went, and after she had been 
affectionately greeted and scolded, Cornelia told them of her 
decision to go with her father. 

They hesitated to approve, but when they called Mother 
Justine to tell her that the search had been successful, and 
explained the situation, she told them they must not come 
between father and daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Emerson, too, 
agreed with the Mother that it was best for both father and 
daughter to be together. 

So Cornelia was installed in the old Wildner home, and 
her father took on the new role of protector and guardian. He 
hardly left her side, as he took up all her studies with her. 
The past drifted from his thoughts, and he planned for the 
future with new vision and bright hopes. 

But he was wise enough not to make the girl devote all 
of her time to her studies. He took her about with him. He 
even let her spend some time at his studio, trying always not 
to deny her the freedom she had craved. He was astounded 
at the depth of her knowledge of life: the appalling wisdom 
about things she had better not known, which she had ac¬ 
quired and showed in the numerous little confidential chats 
they had together. 

On one occasion she said: “Dad, I want to be your com¬ 
panion—not your little girl! ” 

“No,” he surprised her by deriding her request. “I don’t 
wish any girl whom I want to respect, to be my boon com¬ 
panion ! Man ceases to be curious about his fellow carousers. 
It is woman’s mystery that appeals to him.” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


287 


“I don’t see why doing the same things that make men his 
companions, should destroy her mystery.” 

“Let women once completely reveal to men that they have 
just the same crude, vulgar, sordid, animal sort of souls that 
most men have, and the men will stop marrying!” 

“Well, is it only to solve this so-called mystery, that man 
marries ? ” 

“Marriage is often a high price paid to gratify a man’s 
curiosity which can’t be satisfied in any other way.—His 
desire to investigate is not purely material, either—to view 
the unrouged cheek.” 

“Well, what then, is man curious about, Mr. Know-it-all? ” 
she mocked him as she laughed. 

“Man’s curiosity is quite as much about a woman’s or 
girl’s soul as it is about her face and figure: it is quite as 
much about her mind as about her ankles.” 

“Surely in these days her lower limbs are no longer a 
mystery!” she rejoined. 

“That’s true enough, but once let her permit every man 
she meets to see all there is to view, know all there is to 
understand about her, the depths of her soul—the character 
of her mind—the degree of her passion—then he will cease to 
pursue her! ” 

“You mean that if girls bare their souls to men they will 
not attract the right kind, any more than the artists’ model 
who poses in ‘the altogether.’ They may easily have af¬ 
fairs, but rarely marry. Still, you married the Follies girl,” 
she said wisely. 

“Most men want comforters for wives, not entertainers,” 
he replied. “And when they do marry the latter type, the 
union is rarely permanent.” 

“So you want me to be a veiled beauty—a woman of 
mystery—and a comforter! ” 

“I want you to be like your mother. She was a real com- 


288 


SOUL TOYS 


forter, and yet retained that air of holding back something, 
so that I felt I never fully knew her real self.” 

“And then I will marry some man curious to discover my 
real being ? ” 

“Some man, the man—who really loves you, will go 
through hell itself to satisfy his curiosity—his desire for 
you—just as you will for the man you really and truly 
care for.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


Keats Wildner at twenty was a diffident, studious boy. 
Close to six feet in heighth, his extreme thinness and angular 
frame accentuated his long face. His black eyes were set 
very deep in his head, and big black-rimmed spectacles 
framed them. His nose was somewhat long but straight. 
He was a lad who lacked confidence—who was not sure of 
himself—a spiritual-minded dreamer, but one whose dreams 
never left the realm of facts—the world was ever with him. 
He accepted it as he found it—without questioning, with¬ 
out fighting. 

At Mother Justine’s suggestion, he had been started on his 
theological studies at an early age and now looked forward 
to his ordination to the priesthood. 

Clare arranged for Cornelia to spend the month of July 
at “Soul’s Desire” when Keats would be home for his va¬ 
cation. 

Again he surrendered to the beautiful creature believing 
her to be his first cousin—he Jean’s son, she Cornie’s daugh¬ 
ter. She took possession of him, as if it were her sovereign 
right to command his actions, as she ruled his thoughts. 
Love makes vassals of the strongest and it makes no distinc¬ 
tion as to divinity students! 

They strolled and climbed the mountain heights both actu¬ 
ally and spiritually. Cornelia’s developing beauty seemed to 
feed the hidden springs in Keats’ soulful nature, and his 
softly expressed thoughts brought a spiritual intensity to Cor¬ 
nelia’s features. The comradery that developed was, for a 
time, free from any thought stronger than the joy of com¬ 
panionship, of mutual appreciation. 

“It is strange how life catches us up, like the wind which 


289 


290 


SOUL TOYS 


picks up a speck of dust and whirls it high and drops it low. 
So fate makes curious twists to our lives,” Cornelia mused 
aloud as they reclined on the ledge where Keats so often 
could be found. 

“I read from the sayings of an old Chinese philosopher 
just before leaving school,” he met her mood of reverie, 
“ ‘Go back to Nature, for, lying on her bosom, you will be 
guided on the proper way/ So, reposing here, we ought to 
receive the best instruction for our future course.” 

“Your way is clear,” she replied solemnly. “You will com¬ 
plete your studies and become a priest. You will help others 
and lead a splendidly useful life. But I, what shall I do? 
was her curious plaint. 

Impulsively Keats drew her to him, and put his arms 
about her. “You must be my inspiration, my guiding star, 
my dream girl! ” 

“That is too ethereal,” she complained. “I want a knight 
brave enough to carry me away and make me his bride. I 
am not satisfied to be your fairy guide! ” 

“I do want to be your chivalrous knight, but the shackles 
of fact hold us both fast.” 

“Every chain can be melted,” she murmured. 

“But the heat of the process destroys the links,” he warned 
her. “The chains of the Church hold me, the chains of re¬ 
lationship keep us apart.” 

“I always thought the links of a chain were for the pur¬ 
pose of holding together.” 

“I wish they were,” he breathed earnestly. 

It was for them one of the rare moments in life, when 
two souls understand each other and, like a flash, the con¬ 
sciousness of a mutual love is realized! But here, instead of 
this realization being the spark to start the illumination of 
their future, it was shut off by a cloud of facts, that ap¬ 
parently would keep it forever from bursting into flame. 

Cornelia felt the desire to master the situation in some 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


291 


way; while Keats realized the futility of any effort to sur¬ 
mount such overwhelming obstacles. 

“In the first place, if you want to be a religious teacher, 
why do you have to be a priest? Be a minister, and then 
you do not always have to be a bachelor,” she pouted. 

“A nice thing for a good Catholic girl to advise. I sup¬ 
pose I should be a turn-coat so I can get married!” 

“Well, there must be some way out—you are not wed to 
the Church yet.” 

“No, I could never leave my faith. If I did anything 
different, I would not enter the priesthood, but take up liter¬ 
ature as a profession, or teaching, or some other congenial 
work.” 

“Well, you don’t have to be a priest, you know.” 

“But obstacle number two would still be there, we are first 
cousins.” Neither Cornelia nor Keats himself had any 
thought that the latter was not Jean and Clare’s own child. 

“There are some states where we could get married,” she 
asserted frankly. “I have asked about it.” 

“Did you really?” he replied. “But I would not like to 
be married in one state and unmarried in another—and our 
Church does not permit it.” 

“Silly, we wouldn’t have to go to those nasty old states 
that are so old-fashioned.” 

“Well I think for the present, my dear coz, we better be 
satisfied with our platonic friendship.” 

“You may be satisfied, but I am not!” she spluttered 
roguishly. 

And so the discussion would continue from time to time, 
always with the same ending: Keats postponing a decision 
on ways and means and Cornelia rebelling against the situa¬ 
tion. 

Keats was a second Jean, but with a worldly side that the 
latter did not possess. He seemed able to connect his soul 
desire with his love of beauty and heart hopes. Cornelia, 


292 


SOUL TOYS 


too, was like her father in his passionate love of beauty, but 
she had a spiritual insight that he lacked and seemed the em¬ 
bodiment of the soul of beauty. Together they complemented 
each other. 

As they sat on the porch one day, Jean thought, “What a 
wonderful couple they would make! Together they are the 
real Soul Toys of the World! Deep spiritual realization 
idealized beauty—bodily perfection—these are the things 
which make Man the Image of his Maker! I have helped 
to fashion their lives. They are the real culmination of my 
soul desire. And still, all those less favored human beings, 
whose lives I have touched in my settlement work, are they 
not also my soul children?” 

“You are the loveliest rose of the summer,” he heard 
Keats say to Cornelia. 

“And you the soft rain that nourishes it,” her poetic 
reply. 

“But I don’t want to be your rain-beau only,” he laugh¬ 
ingly bantered. 

“Would you love me if I were as homely as an old hedge 
fence?” she asked anxiously. 

“ ‘Beauty is’-” 

“Oh it is—is it? ‘Only skin-deep/ eh! Well, I suppose 
then, if my skin came off, you wouldn’t look at me! ” 

“If you were skinless, I would still love you as much as 
ever! ” 

“Oh, then you would gaze at me as a freak of nature! I 
read, the other day, of a woman who had been very beauti¬ 
ful and was dreadfully disfigured in an automobile accident. 
She called her fiance to her and offered him his freedom.” 

“I hope he didn’t accept it,” Keats injected. 

“He did just that! The destruction of her physical beauty 
had shattered completely the vision of his love.” 

“Thank the good Lord, we are not all built the same! He 
was a miserable cad to take up her offer like that! ” 



THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


293 


“Then you wouldn’t do likewise, if I became an ugly old 
woman ? ” she queried anxiously. 

“I love you—you yourself!” was his sincere answer. 
“And that does not mean only your lovely features or your 
soft pink skin. It is that intangible thing that we call soul— 
that is the you, I love! And your soul will remain, when 
your beauty fades. The painting on the bowl may wear off 
in time, but the sugar stays as sweet as ever.” 

“You make me sad with that thought. Everything we love 
must perish,” she sighed. 

“Except love itself—soul love—deep as the deepest ocean 
—that goes way beneath the surface.” 

“So when you were going to say ‘beauty is only skin deep/ 
you meant you loved my soul, that’s way down underneath 
the skin ? ” 

“Just that. But I want you to stay beautiful too. I love 
you just as you are and as you will ever be.” 

“And I will love you whether you are fat or thin! ” 

“Even if I get all bald?” 

“Even that,” she laughed, imprinting a kiss on his hair, 
as if to ward off such a calamity. 

These were different lovers than Clare and Jean had been. 
Theirs was an entirely spiritual love—this was a very per¬ 
sonal affair. It would never be content with a friendly com¬ 
panionship, but cried for the more intimate relationship of 
husband and wife. 

“Wouldn’t it be awful if we ever stopped loving each 
other! ” the girl exclaimed in a horrified tone. 

“Our love must always be like the first June rose, bright 
and glorious in the flush of its fresh splendour.” 

“But the rose fades and dies,” she said sadly. 

“Our rose will never die,” the boy asserted positively. 

“Oh, I know! It will, as Wordsworth says, ‘Lift its head 
for endless spring, for everlasting blossoming,’ ” she replied. 

He nodded in affirmation of her apt quotation. 


294 


SOUL TOYS 


“But,” she continued, “we must, like the rose, overcome 
the obstacles of heat and cold. Your life work and our 
cousinly relationship stand in the way of the full blooming 
of our rose.” 

“We must talk it over with the folks,” Keats gave his 
decision. 

Cornie had arrived for a few days’ visit and the occasion 
to bring their troubles before their elders came very soon. 
They were all seated on the porch in the cool quiet of the 
early evening, when Cornelia, the more impetuous, blurted 
out of a clear sky: 

“Keats and I love each other—what are you going to do 
about it ? ” 

The assertion and bold query left the circle speechless 
for a time. 

“When did you discover this astounding state of affairs ? ” 
Cornie finally asked lightly. 

‘We have always cared for each other,” Keats quietly 
declared, “but we have just realized that this devotion has 
ripened into an overwhelming love.” 

“No! No, it cannot be! ” Jean gasped as if words would 
not come. “It is impossible! ” 

“Why not, Dad ? ” Keats asked sharply. 

“Your father does not mean you should not love each 
other,” Clare quickly explained. “You are first cousins, 
you have been brought up as brother and sister, of course 
you should have an abiding love for each other. What he 
means is, that you should realize that this is the kind of 
your love, and not of sweethearts.” 

“He means we can never marry,” Cornelia abruptly al¬ 
leged. 

“Yes, that’s it,” Jean admitted, grasping anxiously this 
simple statement of his intention. 

“I suppose my intended profession is your first objection, 
and the fact that we are first cousins, your second,” Keats 
amplified Cornelia’s allegation. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


295 


“Aren’t these reasons enough?” Jean aggravated the situ¬ 
ation by the finality with which he asked the question. 

“No! No!” Keats cried. “Love is more—above those 
things! ” He spoke rapidly, not stopping to choose his 
words. “I will not be a hypocrite—wear a priest’s garb and 
love another more than the Church! You wouldn’t want me 
to be a hypocrite,” he pleaded. “Cousins can get married 
in some places even if they cannot in New York.” 

“It is against the law,” Jean parried. 

“In some places—not everywhere,” Cornelia supported 
Keats. 

“You wouldn’t want to be married in one place and law 
breakers in another ? ” Clare brought her ammunition to 
her husband’s aid. 

“I understand,” Cornie slowly stated, “that a marriage 
valid in one state must be given full force and effect in every 
other, unless specifically forbidden.” 

Jean looked toward him in angry surprise. “You—you 
approve ? ” 

“I want to see them happy. What is the good of forcing 
Keats to be a priest, if he doesn’t want to be one? And first 
cousins have married many a time, you know that as well as 
I do,” he brought out rather impatiently. 

“You don’t understand-” Jean began and then sud¬ 

denly checked himself. 

“I think—I do,” Cornie haltingly replied. “You have set 
your heart on the boy’s entering the Church, and you would 
sacrifice his happiness for your own satisfaction, or make a 
hypocrite of him.” 

“No—you don’t know—you can’t know!” Jean almost 
shrieked, as his features became distorted with the depth of 
his feeling. 

“Is there some mystery about this ? ” Keats asked. His 
curiosity was now aroused by Jean’s strange intensity of 
expression. 



296 


SOUL TOYS 


Clare was afraid that her husband, in his excitement, 
would tell of Keats’ adoption, the knowledge of which they 
had been so careful to guard from the latter. She did not 
know of the letter pinned to his baby clothes, naming Cornie 
as his father, and could not understand the fear that pos¬ 
sessed Jean. 

“You must realize, my dear child,” she smoothed over 
the situation, “that you have surprised your father. I think 
we had better not discuss the matter further now, but we will 
all think it over and take it up some other time.” 

“Don’t try to stem the flood, Clare,” Cornie warned. “They 
have a right to their happiness.” 

“Shut up, you damn fool! ” Jean snapped at his brother, 
losing control of himself for the moment. 

“My dear Jean, why this overbearing manner? Has Fate 
dealt you too hard a blow ? ” 

“Yes, yes, too hard a blow,” he mumbled. “Too hard a 
blow! ” 

Clare skillfully led the conversation into other channels, 
and shortly afterwards, Keats and Cornelia said they would 
take a walk in the moonlight. 

As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Cor¬ 
nelia gave voice to her troubled thoughts: 

“How peculiar your father acted! I wonder if there can 
be any other reason why we should not be married.” 

“For heaven’s sake, don’t look for more reasons; aren’t 
two enough? But Dad did talk very strangely, I don’t 
understand it at all.” 

“Neither do I. Maybe he will tell my father, and I can 
get anything out of him,” was her hopeful reply. 

“There are some things that we should not seek to know,” 
Keats observed moodily. “Maybe this is one of them.” 

She looked up at him sharply: “Do—you know what it 
is ? ” she questioned. 

“No, I haven’t the faintest idea, but I have an intuitive 
fear that it is something we cannot overcome.” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


297 


“I thought you said, ‘Love overcomes everything.’ ” She 
repeated quietly his oft-expressed words. 

“I realize now that there is a force stronger even than 
love. Fate, Destiny, we call it, but it is really the domina¬ 
tion of the Past, and the Future,” he replied slowly. 

“I cannot stand riddles; what do you mean by that queer 
statement ? ” 

“The Past is what makes our human relationships, we 
cannot control that, and heredity is part of that Past. The 
Future, in our children compels us to hesitate in the Present. 
What will be the result to our children? We must ask 
ourselves that, and the answer must guide us.” 

“Then we are not free agents. Love calls slaves, is 
that it?” 

“Alas, yes! We like to think we are the rulers of our 
own destinies, and up to a certain point we are, but there 
are times when we must admit that we are slaves to the past 
and future generations.” He bowed his head as if in sub¬ 
mission to the inevitable. 

“Then we are only a connecting link, a bridge of sighs, 
starting in a torrent of our own tears at birth and ending 
in the wails of others at death.” 

“But while that bridge stands,” he took up her thought, 
as they strolled down the path, “it is a credit to its Maker. 
It is sturdy and strong—it withstands the onslaught of the 
ever-charging winds and the rush of the waters about it and 
it serves its intended purpose.” 

“And is it intended ? ” she debated, “that we should stifle 
our love, commit love-suicide as it were, for the sake of our 
fathers or our children ? ” 

“I don’t know,” he answered humbly. “Sometimes life is 
too much for us. We are dumb in the presence of its 
problems.” 

“Well, I am going to fight!” she decided brazenly. “If 
you want to help, all right. It is better to put up a single 
front. But whether you do or not, I am, so there! ” 


298 


SOUL TOYS 


“It is not wisdom to contend against overwhelming odds.” 

“But it is bravery! I want to be like Helen of Troy, who 
started the Trojan conflict, like Eugenie, who called the 
Franco-Prussian war ‘my little war.’ I tell you I am going 
to fight, and fight hard.” 

“You old Amazon! ” Keats dubbed her proudly. “I 
would be ashamed to call myself a man, if I didn’t enlist un¬ 
der your banner. However, we must be sensible and find 
out first what we are fighting, before we begin.” 

“Most armies have not known whom they are fighting nor 
what they are fighting for.” 

“And the result has been mostly chaos, as far as the sol¬ 
dier was concerned,” he persisted. 

While Keats and Cornelia were discussing the matter, their 
elders were doing likewise. Clare, however, went in as soon 
as they had gone, leaving the discussion to the two brothers. 

“Jean addressed Cornie ferociously: “How could you ap¬ 
prove such a horrible thing ? ” 

“Why not ? ” Cornie replied. “I can’t see anything so 
terrible in it.” 

“Good God, man, don’t you understand? Do I have to 
tell you?” 

Cornie looked at him queerly. “Really, why not tell me 
what you mean? I am no clairvoyant.” 

“You must realize it now, if you did not know before. 
He has your very eyes! ” 

“My eyes? I don’t understand! What do you mean? 
For heaven’s sake, talk out and be done with this silly 
sophistry! ” he urged tartly. 

“They are sister and brother! ” was all Jean could say. 

“How can that be ? ” Cornie was dumbfounded. “You 
adopted Keats, and Cornelia is my daughter.” Then sud¬ 
denly his face clouded, he jumped up and took Jean by 
the shoulders: “You don’t mean that he is Meta’s child— 
Cornelia’s mother’s ? ” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


299 


“No! No!” Jean protested. “He is your child—yours 
and Louise’s! ” 

“Mine? Louise? Who the hell is she? Fve had several 
wives, God knows, but no Louise! ” 

“It was the night of your wedding to Clare,” Jean ex¬ 
plained. “I was well nigh mad, yes, mad with jealousy and 
disappointment! I followed a girl of the streets. In her 
room a baby cried, that child was Keats! ” He stopped as 
if the narration brought the past too vividly before him. 
“I offered—I wanted to take her and the child out of such 
a life. She agreed to come with me; dressed the baby and 
gathered his clothes together. Then she went out on some 
errand. She never returned! Pinned to the baby’s clothes 
was this letter.” He extracted a time-worn sheet from his 
wallet and handed it to Cornie, who walked to the light and 
read: 

“His father’s name is Cornie Wildner. He 
wouldn’t marry me, and I left him before our child 
was born. He never knew whether it lived or not. 

I don’t think he’d care. I wouldn’t take his money. 
Don’t take it for my child. I was his plaything, that 
was all—but I loved him, and I don’t complain. 

Take care of little Cornie—you will never see me 
again. It is the only way. I would pull him down, 
and you, too. Now no one ever need know his be¬ 
ginning. God bless him, and you too. 

“Louise.” 

He held the letter in his hand for a few moments after 
he had finished reading and stared into space, as if trying 
to call back out of the past some recollection to add to the 
writing. Jean watched him intently, but said nothing. Cornie 
again took up the letter and read it carefully through a 
second time. Finally the tension between the two brothers 
snapped. 

“Well?” Jean asked abruptly. “What have you to say 
now ? ” 


300 


SOUL TOYS 


“I am trying to think. I cannot remember any Louise. 
I never heard of her or of the claim she makes,” he spoke 
deliberately and certainly. “I am very sure I would remem- 
her the circumstance—if it ever occurred. There have been 
many women in my life, of course, but no children, except 
Cornelia.” 

“Such a charge is hard to disprove,” Jean ventured. 

“Yes, that is true. What can I say further than that I 
know nothing of this woman or her claim? ” 

“You can see why even the thought of such a marriage 
set me wild. It is absolutely unthinkable! ” 

“Now, Jean, leave the hysterics out and try to consider 
the situation in a calm way. My daughter is really a wild, 
tender creature—like a fawn—and must be handled care¬ 
fully or she is liable to run away, as she did from the con¬ 
vent.” 

“And your son? ” heatedly Jean brought out his words. 

“You are very sure. You always were cock-sure of disa¬ 
greeable things! 

“Disagreeable! I would consider it the greatest privilege 
on earth to have been Keats’ real father! ” was the spirited 
retort. 

“Oh, don’t get sentimental! We have some plain facts 
to deal with, and the lives of two children very dear to both 
of us. Forget your heroics! ” Cornie importuned. 

“You can look at it dispassionately, you, who have been the 
creature of passion, who took on parenthood without a 
thought, and now would like to throw it off as easily. You 
cannot do it, Cornie! Nature has caught you this time; but 
the saddest part is that you have brought misery to two inno¬ 
cent beings; your children must suffer more than you.” 

“I question whether, assuming that I am Keats’ father, I 
have done so great a wrong to be the partial cause of his 
existence. I doubt it. It is true, just now he would prob¬ 
ably curse me for it, but consider the joy he has been to you; 
and if he gives Cornelia up-” 



THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


301 


“If? If? He must!” 

“On the slim evidence of this letter ? But we must get to 
the bottom of it. I am not his father. The girl tried to hang 
it on me, because I happened to have money.” 

“But she wouldn’t take your money.” 

“I know that is what she said in the letter, but that is 
just what sounds fishy to me. It looks like a pretty deep 
plan, to me.” 

“He has your eyes! ” Jean insisted hotly. 

"Other men happen to have black eyes also, and the 
mother might have had them too. He surely does not re¬ 
semble me otherwise.” 

“That is true, but his eyes are yours, nevertheless.” 

Ignoring Jean’s repetition, Cornie continued: “If we do 
break this off, and he becomes a priest and helps to ease and 
comfort the world’s misery, is it better that he should have 
been born or not ? ” 

“That is not for us to say. He was brought into the 
world without his volition.” 

“Well, so are we all. The world would probably be a lot 
better off if many of the perfectly legitimate offspring of 
good substantial families, undamaged goods, were never 
brought into it. As you say, the whole problem of life is 
inexplicable.” 

“You always had an easy way of avoiding responsibilities.” 

“I am not trying to side-step anything, I am simply look¬ 
ing the facts squarely in the face. If I am Keats’ father, I 
don’t blame myself very much for bringing such a splendid 
example of manhood into the world! ” 

“And you left him for me to bring up! ” 

“I never knew he was in existence until you took him, 
and then had not the faintest idea of what you have claimed 
to-day. Your statement is too ridiculous to answer. You 
were under no obligation to adopt him.” 

“He was my brother’s child.” 


302 


SOUL TOYS 


“Well, then, if it is true—I furnished you with a wife 
and child. You ought to be thankful,” Cornie returned with 
an insolent smirk. 

“I took over the obligations you shirked,” angrily re¬ 
sponded Jean. 

“Yes? We do not seem to be making much headway in 
our plans.” 

“We must compel them to realize the utter impossibility 
of the situation! ” 

“How? You cannot tell Keats that you think he may be 
my illegitimate son, or that of someone else, either! He be¬ 
lieves he is your lawful child—doesn’t even know he was 
adopted. And what can you tell Cornelia?” 

“We must think the matter over; but you see now that 
something must be done to separate them.” 

“Until this flimsy evidence can be sifted. If it is true, 
of course, they could never marry; but how to make them 
hold off until I can investigate, without giving them the true 
explanation, is surely a problem.” 

Nothing further was said regarding the matter that eve¬ 
ning. The next morning Cornie said he had to go into town 
to attend to some business. Jean surmised that he was go¬ 
ing to try to locate Keats’ mother and positively determine 
his parentage, and said that he would accompany him. 

Cornie suggested that Cornelia had better come in with 
him and that she and Keats should not see each other for 
the present. He really feared their elopement to some 
place where first cousins could be married. 

“A wise suggestion,” Jean backed him up. “It can do no 
harm for you to be apart for a few days, while your father 
and I attend to certain things that it is better you should 
not know about just now.” 

“I never heard of anything so ridiculous! ” Keats objected 
strenuously. 

“Your father and uncle know best,” his mother told him. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


303 


“It looks like it—treating us like babies! ” Keats sneered 
sullenly. 

“You only make it harder for us all,” Clare warned him. 
“Just be patient and everything may come out all right.” 

“And maybe it will not,” he scoffed. “A great thing to 
take chances with.” 

“Now, Keats, be sensible,” Jean urged. 

“I cannot imagine what is the need of this secrecy. How¬ 
ever, if you all think it is so necessary that we keep apart, 
until something is explained that we are now ignorant of, 
why, I cannot object. I will go back to St. Mary’s convent 
this very night and I will not come out until you tell me that 
Keats and I can be married! I will shut myself up in that 
hot stuffy place forever, unless I know that we will not be 
separated.” Cornelia indicated positively her intended action. 

“That’s right, my dear, you go to Aunt Mary. She will 
look after you.” Clare was quick to approve her idea. 

“I cannot stand it here without you,” Keats complained to 
Cornelia. 

“Your father will go in with Uncle Cornie for a few days, 
and I really need you, dear,” Clare gave as her reason for 
wanting him to remain with her. 

“All right, Mother, I will stay with you,” he decided, as 
Cornelia nodded her approval. 

In the morning, Cornelia, Jean, and Cornie left in the lat¬ 
ter’s car; the girl went to St. Mary’s and the brothers to 
their old home, from which, as soon as possible, they started 
out intent on finding Louise. 

They visited the boarding house where Jean saw her last. 
She had never returned there. He left the building hope¬ 
less, dead to all emotions except anguish and despair. It 
seemed as if a great river flowed between the present and 
that distant date, when he had gone out of the same house 
with the tiny child in his arms. A river whose waters had 
washed away every trace of the mother. 


304 


SOUL TOYS 


And Cornie too showed unusual traces of despair. His 
features, always smiling, were serious now, for pain, unlike 
pleasure, wears no mask. He led the way to all his former 
haunts, but no traces of a Louise could they find. 

They were returning to their rooms late the next night, 
after a fruitless search, when Cornie remarked, “It will be 
as hard to bridle a lion or hold the horns of a fierce bull, as 
to control Keats when we return without news.” 

“We must trust in God to help us,” said Jean, giving 
utterance to his only hope. 

“Trust in God, but for His sake do not stop looking for 
the woman! ” Cornie retorted. “I believe the only true form 
of heroism lies in seeing the world as it is and in facing 
conditions as they actually are.” 

“You mean, tell them the truth? ” 

“I would tell them what we know only, not what you 
surmise.” 

“Where would you draw the line ? ” 

“Tell them that Keats is your adopted son. He will find 
out sooner or later anyway. And that you wanted to trace 
his parentage before they married.” 

“That will not hold water. Why should that make a dif¬ 
ference ? ” 

“Well, if that doesn’t satisfy him, tell him there is a ques¬ 
tion of his legitimacy.” 

“That would be too cruel,” Jean objected. 

“It is more cruel to keep them in suspense indefinitely.” 

“Sometimes,” Jean resumed, “a situation will take care of 
itself, like muddy water: no one can make it clear, but if it 
be allowed to remain still it will clarify itself. You want to 
add more mud to the pool.” 

“All right! All right! Don’t tell them, let ’em eat out 
their hearts! ” Cornie threw up his hands in a gesture of 
resignation. 

“What will be the result of telling them? It isn’t as if it 
would help any.” 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE 


305 


“Well, I suppose a little delay will not hurt matters. Let’s 
try a few days longer.” 

So the search went on—a helter-skelter, meaningless look¬ 
ing, without beginning or end. 

“Cornie rooted up his old cronies—the boys of the Heart- 
Mates Club—his studio associates—everyone from whom 
he thought that he might be able to find a clue. The name, 
Louise, was all they had to start with, and they could find no 
information that would help them to discover more. 

After several days Cornie suggested that they go to St. 
Mary’s and see how his daughter was standing the separation. 
Jean welcomed the idea, hoping that Mother Justine might 
give them some plan to work upon. 

As they rode toward the Academy, Cornie gave vent to his 
thoughts: “Louise certainly did not lack originality, either in 
the plan she made for disposing of her child, or of herself.” 

Jean started to reply that, “Truth is original,” but feared 
to antagonize his brother, so only said, “She certainly is a 
mystery, but Keats is very real! ” 




Part IX 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 





CHAPTER XXXI 


“Suffering seems to be the only medium by which man 
really becomes aware of God/’ said Keats, voicing to Clare 
his inmost thoughts. 

“I think one is always aware of his Maker, but sorrow 
and pain deepen the human consciousness and draw man 
closer to the Diety,” she supplemented. 

“It doesn’t seem fair that I should be left in the dark, 
when my whole life hangs in the balance. I feel so helpless— 
so utterly useless.” 

“I know, my son, I know. But what can we do? Surely 
you can have patience for a little while.” 

“But it is so much worse to have to surmise and imagine 
what is wrong. If only I could be taken into your confi¬ 
dence! You know, Mother, what it is, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I know,” she admitted truthfully, for Jean had 
thought it best that she should, “but I realize that, hard as it 
may seem for you not to be informed, and much as it pains 
me not to tell you all, it is to save you, that matters must be 
left as they are for the present.” 

“I never heard of such a situation! ” he cried impatiently. 

“I do not think there ever was quite the exact counter¬ 
part,” she conceded. 

“But why the mystery ? I am no child! I am afraid to 
let myself think—I fear such horrible things.” 

“My dear boy, the knowledge that you are not entirely 
the master of your own destiny, has overpowered you.” 

“I wish I had never been born! ” he cried as he bent his 
head and sobbed out his misery. 

Clare held her arms wide open, “Come, my child, mother 
understands.” 


309 


310 


SOUL TOYS 


The mother always knows. She doesn’t laugh at the 
child’s vexation nor is she overcome by the man’s wrong¬ 
doing. She understands, but she suffers. She sees her own 
soul reflected in that of her child. Her heart may be break¬ 
ing—but still she smiles. Her hopes may be tumbling about 
her—but her face shows it not. Her life’s blood may be 
slipping from her and still she smiles—that her own may 
never know the pain that is hers! The mother’s soul is the 
deepest in the world; it is more akin to God than any other! 

“Be brave, my lad,” she whispered. “It will all come 
out right.” 

“What gets me,” he complained, “is the futility of effort. 
Now what can I do to clear up this mess? Sit here and 
mope. And ’Nelia, too—she can not do anything. Just sit 
and wait—and wait.” 

“That is what we have to do many times in life, my child; 
just mark time, while events stronger than we, round out our 
lives.” 

“Then you believe in Destiny, Mother? ” 

“Call it God’s will rather, but whatever name you give it, 
there is a Power beyond man’s control that turns his life 
into unexpected channels, thwarts some dearest ambitions, 
and fulfills others. It is a something greater than Man.” 

“Certainly you do not believe that a good and just God, or 
the great God-power—Love—plans out each one’s life, 
measures the amount of joy and sorrow?” 

“No, what I mean is, that try as hard as we can to shape 
events according to our own ideas of what will make us or 
others happy, circumstances in the shape of Death—Birth— 
Sickness—War—Human Stubbornness—will prevent the 
fulfillment of the best made plans.” 

“Perhaps—perhaps,” breathed the boy, “it is all for our 
own good.” 

It may be. That is the old question of why the good 
suffer and the wicked prosper,” Clare suggested. 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


311 


“Perhaps the very suffering of the good is for their own 
trial and growth, and a blessing in disguise; and the pros¬ 
perity of the wicked may prove their ultimate undoing,” he 
philosophized. 

“We never know another’s soul. If we could reach the in¬ 
most being, our whole viewpoint might be changed.” 

“Our little confidence, Mother darling, has somehow made 
me more acceptive. I feel so small now, so insignificant, as 
if I were little again and in your arms crying for something— 
what—I do not know.” 

“Crying for happiness, my dear. Every baby protests 
against anything that interferes with his inalienable right to 
happiness and comfort. I pray both may come to you.” 

So all mothers pray for their children in the same language 
of mother-love. All children do not understand this lan¬ 
guage, but Keats did, and said to her: “I know you would 
tell me if you could. I will try for your sake to control my¬ 
self, but I don’t think there would be any harm in my going 
to see ’Nelia at the convent, do you? ” 

“No, that would be perfectly all right. When will you go? ” 

“This afternoon. Please go with me.” 

“Very well. If you really wish it, I will.” 

“I do want you; please come.” 

“Surely, I will. But I want to ask you, Keats, to think 
over carefully what it means to give up your profession. You 
know how much we all hoped to see you ordained.” 

“I will, Mother dear, but if the current gets too strong it 
is useless to resist, I am afraid my love for Cornelia will 
carry me away.” 

“You must make the decision. You have your own life 
to live, but sometimes what seems a torrent stream in the 
springtime of life, turns out to be only a dried-up brook in 
the summer’s height. That is why I advise careful thought. 
Your happiness means more to me than anything else, you 
realize that, Keats, dear ? ” 


312 


SOUL TOYS 


“Indeed I do, Mother.” 

It so happened that Clare and Keats arrived at St. Mary’s 
only a short time after Cornie and Jean had been ushered 
into the Mother’s presence. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Mother Justine wel¬ 
comed them all. “But I am sorry that Cornelia is out for 
a walk with a class of girls and two sisters. She will come 
back soon.” 

They were hardly seated when there came a knock at the 
door. Upon the Mother’s calling to enter, a nun of medium 
height, very thin, and with a Madonna-like face of unearthly 
pallor, but still attractive, came into the room and handed 
Mother Justine some papers. “This is Sister Grace,” the 
latter introduced her, “she has just returned from Belgium, 
where she has been stationed for some years. This is my 
niece, Mrs. Wildner—my nephews, Jean and Cornelius 
Wildner—and my grand-nephew, Keats. 

At the mention of the name, “Cornelius Wildner,” the 
nun swayed, tottered, and would have fallen had she not been 
standing near a table. She looked at Keats: “This is your 
son ? ” she asked Cornie. 

“No,” Jean answered quickly, and wondering why she 
should have come to that conclusion. “He is my son.” As 
he spoke he looked her full in the face and then gasped as 
he sank back into the chair from which he had risen upon 
her entrance. 

“Are you ill, Jean?” Clare cried as she went to him. 
Cornie hurriedly ran for water. Drinking it, Jean gained 
control of himself. 

Sister Grace stood by, while Mother Justine looked at her 
in amazement, unable to fathom the cause of the strange 
scene and wondering why she remained in the room. 

As soon as Jean could speak he said, “Keats, please leave 
the room for a few minutes; there is something I want to 
say to the others.” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


313 


The young man looked curiously toward the nun, who 
continued to stare at him questioningly. “Very well, Father, 
but I should think the time has come when I might be taken 
into your confidence! ” 

“Not yet, Keats, not yet,” was all he could mutter. 

After he had gone, Jean turned abruptly to Sister Grace, 
who had sought a chair: 

“Was your name Louise, before you took your vows? ” 

It was now the turn of the others to start in surprise. 

“Good God!” Cornie ejaculated, “is it possible?” 

The nun hesitated, looking perplexedly at the members of 
the group. She paused for breath to voice her reply. She 
could not read their minds, so asked the non-commital 
“Why?” 

Jean gained courage to proceed and he bared their prob¬ 
lem to her. He told her, how the happiness of two people 
hung by a thread; how he had taken the little boy from the 
rooming house and brought him up as his own; how they 
had searched for Keats’ mother in order to determine his 
parentage, and how fruitless the seeking had been. 

Attentively she listened, and when he had finished, quietly 
admitted with quivering lips: “My name—was Louise. I 
am Keats’ mother!” 

Her superior was the first to regain her composure. “You 
are his mother ? ” she questioned simply, but sharply. 

“Yes, I was the girl who left the child in your care,” she 
acknowledged as she turned toward Jean. 

“I knew I was not mistaken,” he asserted. 

The sister did not hear, but started softly and slowly, al¬ 
most in a whisper, to tell her story. 

“I came of a good family,” she stated proudly, “my father 
was a prosperous merchant in Poughkeepsie. I was an only 
child. My mother died when I was about to graduate from 
Vassar. My father grieved so for her, that he let his busi¬ 
ness decline. I kept company with a boy whom I had played 


314 


SOUL TOYS 


with since childhood. His father was the president of one 
of the big banks and his mother and sisters leaders in the 
town’s society.” 

She stopped as if trying to dig down into the well of 
memory was an effort, but as no one spoke, she resumed: 
“We loved each other, but my father’s business troubles went 
from bad to worse, and finally he became sick. His store was 
closed, and he told me one day that there would be about 
enough left to bury him. That was the truth! He died soon 
after—and I found myself alone in the world. My sweet¬ 
heart asked me to marry him, but his family had ignored me 
in my trouble, and I refused. I had determined to sell our 
household goods and go to New York. I thought with my 
college education, that I could support myself and get 
along all right.” 

She breathed a deep sigh as if the recollection was too 
much for her. Jean stared at her—every word was hypnotic! 

“Just before I left, he insisted upon my marrying him. We 
were married by a Justice of the Peace in Poughkeepsie! ” 

Cornie asked if she wanted a glass of water as she seemed 
unable to proceed. She nodded, and he left the room to get 
it. No one moved until his return. 

The nun sipped the water, and then continued: “He in¬ 
sisted on taking me to New York. He stayed with me for 
three weeks—then his father sent word that if he did not 
come home at once he need never come. I think he knew 
of our marriage, although he never admitted it. I secured 
a position as a social secretary and worked for a number of 
months—until ” 

Again she hesitated, and the color slowly mounted to her 
pale cheeks. 

Mother Justine could control herself no longer; she ut¬ 
tered a glad cry—“Then Keats is a legitimate child! ” 

“He is ” the sister replied. 

“But why did you say that Cornie was his father?” Jean 



THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 315 


quizzed her, not entirely satisfied with her explanation. 

“I will come to that in a moment,” she answered. “While 
I worked, I lived very quietly. I had a few girl friends, 
that was all—no men at all. I had written regularly to my 
husband, but sent the letters to General Delivery, as his 
father had warned him that if he ever found that he had 
anything to do with me he would disinherit him. I came to 
hate his father and his whole family bitterly! ” 

The words did not seem to be those of the calm nun—it 
appeared as if she were giving a recitation. 

“Finally, before my child was born, the letters that I had 
written came back unopened. I did not know why. Later I 
learned that my husband had been ill with influenza and died! 
No one knew w r e were married, except possibly his father. 
I did not know when he died. I heard of it from an old 
friend, whom I happened to meet on the street. 

“I had saved a little money, and came through the ordeal 
of my son’s birth without serious difficulty. I became very 
lonely. I determined I would never let my husband’s family 
know. The only thing they ever had against me was that I 
was poor and had no social standing,” she defended herself. 

“The ways of the world are strange,” Mother Justine 
meditated, as she fingered her rosary. 

“I had a great fear that if my husband’s family every 
heard of my child, they would take him from me. I grew so 
to hate them that I determined I would do anything rather 
than let them have my child.” 

The Mother gazed steadily at her as if unable to under¬ 
stand the ferocity of her hatred. 

“This thought so preyed upon my mind that I was unable 
to work long at anything. I lost one position after another 
and became thoroughly discouraged. At last I met some 
girls who were having the good times which I had always 
denied myself. I had always been a good girl until my child 
was a year old, then I sought the bright lights. I went from 


316 


SOUL TOYS 


bad to worse. It was at a party at Rector’s that I met 
Cornelius Wildner.” 

He stared at her at the mention of his name. His thoughts 
ranged through his memory seeking recollection of her, but 
he shook his head at the vain effort. 

“I had heard of him before,” she plunged on, “I knew he 
was wealthy, and the thought occurred to me, as we sat at 
the table, that if I could in some way get him to adopt my 
little one his future would be assured. I never knew him or 
met him except that once at the table in Rector's ” 

An audible sigh of relief went up from the little group. 
Mother Justine raised her eyes upward and breathed a 
prayer of thankfulness. “Strange are the ways of the Lord,” 
she declared again, with an unusual fervor in her voice. 

“I became reckless-” the nun dropped her eyes, “a 

common woman of the streets! ” A shudder at the recollec¬ 
tion went through her. “I determined that if I could get my 
little one taken by some responsible person, I would do away 
with myself.” 

Mother Justine piously crossed herself at this confession. 

“I did not know you were his brother,” she addressed 
Jean, “but I felt that you were the kind of man who would 
make him support my child, if you believed that he was the 
father. That was why I wrote the note I left. I had 
thought it all out. If I made it appear as if money were 
the one thing I did not want for myself or child, it would 
be the most convincing argument in favor of the truth of 
my claim. You see, I was a college girl, not unresourceful.” 

Cornie nodded his head as if approving her action and 
admiring it. 

“I left the house that night, with the firm intention of 
ending it all—for myself.” 

Clare shuddered as she thought how impossible of solu¬ 
tion their problem would have been, if she had carried out 
her plan. 



THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


317 

\ 

“I wandered about the streets until morning, when I hap¬ 
pened to pass a Catholic Church, which many people were 
entering for an early mass. I went in, almost unconsciously, 
and there, at the foot of the altar of the Virgin, a new peace 
settled on me. I felt assured that my child would be taken 
care of and my husband’s folks would never know of him. I 
vowed that I would devote the rest of my life to the Holy 
Virgin’s work. I went to the priest and confessed, and 
asked him to direct me to a convent. I entered the order 
of the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph, and was sent to 
Belgium, where I worked all through the war. I think I 
redeemed my past life,” she said timidly. “God knows I 
have tried hard! Perhaps I was sent back here for this 
very purpose.” She ceased, as if her tale were done, but 
feeling beneath her robe brought out a paper, yellow with 
age, and handed it to Mother Justine. The latter read aloud 
the heading — “MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE—Louise 
Standish to Arthur Thornton A 

“Thank God!” Cornie declared fervently. 

“Let us all pray for a moment,” the Mother suggested, 
and they bowed their heads in silent devotion. 

“It is wonderful—astounding,” Clare marveled, “that it 
should have turned out this way!” 

“A miracle!” Jean styled it. 

“How can we let Keats and Cornelia know that everything 
is settled ? ” Clare asked. “They are not even first cousins! ” 

“We must tell them the truth—it is not necessary to go 
into details—I will tell them, myself. Call them! Cornelia 
must be back by now,” were the Mother’s decisions issued 
with rapid fire. 

“My children, come here,” she beckoned them to her as 
they entered the room. 

“The Lord has strange ways of making us happy, means 
beyond our mortal understanding. But if we have faith, it 
always comes out right,” 


318 


SOUL TOYS 


Cornelia smiled at her. “I knew it would/’ she said 
simply and confidently. 

“Be prepared for a surprise, Keats,” she enjoined. “You 
are not the son of Clare and Jean, you were adopted by them 
when only a little tot! ” 

He passed his hand over his brow as if he could not com¬ 
prehend. “Not their son! Then who am If” he questioned 
with a startled cry. 

“You are my son!” Sister Grace declared, as she came 
forward with wide-open arms. 

He stood for a moment as if petrified. “Your son?” he 
demanded. “How can that be! ” 

She drew him to her. “I was married before I took my 
vows. Your father died, you were adopted, and I became a 
nun.” 

“Here is the marriage certificate,” Mother Justine sup¬ 
plemented. “You see it is all very regular.” 

“But why the mystery ? ” Keats inquired with a dumb, 
stunned look. “I do not understand! ” 

“We only found your mother this very afternoon, or 
rather she discovered us here,” Cornie explained. “We 
could not let you be married without knowing who you 
really were.” 

“I understand,” Keats replied. “The first cousin objec¬ 
tion was only a subterfuge ? ” 

“Yes,” Cornie lied glibly. 

“I see now, that silence, or even lies, are better than real 
knowledge at times. I don’t think I could have stood the 
truth. It must be dreadful not to know who one is! ” 

“There is no legal objection to your marriage now,” 
Clare injected. 

Sister Grace looked inquiringly at Keats, who had quite 
recovered himself. 

“This is Cornelia,” he explained. “We are in love with 
each other. This terrible mystery has almost broken our 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


319 


hearts. I am studying for the priesthood, but I am afraid I 
will have to give it up—for her.” 

His mother looked at him sadly. “Be sure you know 
your mind—yes, your soul—before you make the final deci¬ 
sion. The Church is really your father and mother ! Do 
not desert them in haste! ” Suddenly she looked heaven¬ 
ward : “Christ, help me to hold him! ” she breathed softly. 

He saw the pain that his announcement had given her, 
and his expression changed. 

While the sister was speaking, Cornelia’s face had turned 
a deep red. Flushed and excited she turned to her. “I 
will not give him up. Do you understand? I will not give 
him up! ” 

Mother Justine exclaimed in surprise, “Why Cornelia, how 
can you be so unladylike ? ” 

“I love him! ” her emotion blazed forth. “We are Soul- 
Mates, yes, and Heart-Mates, too. We are one in thought 
and one in soul. You cannot separate us! ” 

“No one wishes to do so,” the Mother Superior quickly 
assented. “Keats is the only one to decide. But I want him 
to hear something.” She took a book from the table and 
read slowly, “Who is the hero? He who conquers his pas¬ 
sions. He that ruleth his spirit, is better than he that taketh 
a city.” 

“I suppose I have nothing to say! I am only a woman to 
be buffeted back and forth like a feather on the ocean— 
moved by every wind and wave of his emotion! ” Cornelia 
interposed. 

The shock of the recent revelation seemed to have be¬ 
numbed Keats. A vast relief that there was now no legal 
objection to his lawful marriage to Cornelia, was his first 
overpowering sensation. This was followed by an awsome 
feeling, as he realized that this sweet-faced nun was his real 
mother. The thought came to him uncalled, that he owed 
an obligation to this mother whom he could not distinguish 


320 


SOUL TOYS 


in his present muddled thinking, from the Church which she 
served; a duty to continue his studies for the priesthood and 
sacrifice his love for Cornelia. His innermost being was 
touched by the proud, pathetic, longing eyes of his own 
mother. His religious training was surging to the front. 

As Cornelia listened to the Mother Superior reading from 
the old book, she watched Keats’ face and sensed the inward 
struggle. An intuitive fear that a supposed call of duty 
might over-master his love for her, caused her to cry out: 
“Don’t, please don’t listen to them! Come away with me! ” 

“God in His unfailing providence has marked for the 
grace of vocation, those who are to serve him as his chosen 
instruments. We must recognize these vessels of election 
and set them apart, that they may be duly fashioned and 
tempered for the use of the calling. We should not interfere 
in their preparation or seek to put them to other purposes,’’ 
Sister Grace broke in with deep feeling. 

To the half-deadened Keats, the nun’s words sounded like 
the voice of God, the preserver, and Cornelia’s as that of Sa¬ 
tan, the tempter. 

He crossed to where Cornelia stood, and folded her unre¬ 
sisting in his arms. “My darling,’’ he whispered, “I love 
you more than my life, but we must do what is right.” 

She pushed him from her, her eyes blazing, and cried 
wildly: “You are giving in—you do not love me—you have 
only known her a little while,” she looked resentfully toward 
his mother—“and you want to do what she asks! ” 

“She gave me life, and suffered for me.” He almost un¬ 
consciously defended her. 

“But I do not want to spoil your happiness,” said Sister 
Grace softly, sadly. “I only want you to be sure of your¬ 
self.” 

“I want to be, Sister.” He could not call her mother. 
“I know now, I must be certain; the light in your eyes has 
shown me my duty to consider.” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


321 


“You would murder my soul! ” Cornelia cried. “And my 
soul-children, too! ” 

“My dear, dear girl, be quiet,” Mother Justine reproved 
her. “You do not realize what you are saying.” 

“You are all against me! I demand the right to choose 
the father of my children /” 

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Mother Justine asked 
in frank amazement. 

“I have always loved children passionately. As a little 
child I would cuddle my dollies, making believe they were 
babies. Sensing my feelings, my nurse, whenever chance put 
a real infant in my path, would place the wee bundle in my 
arms. O, what rapture I felt! I would hug it tightly, and 
cry when I was deprived of its warmth and softness! ” 

The little group listened intently, wondering at the dis¬ 
closure, but unable to connect it with her bold remark. 

“My earliest recollections are all of playing with a little 
lad and looking up to him for protection, for leadership. As 
I lisped my first words, his name was most often on my 
lips. I admired him then. As my reason grew with my 
body, I learned to respect him, and then—of a sudden—it all 
flamed forth as an everlasting love! He had been the father 
of my dollies in all my play, now I fancied him as the actual 
father of my very real dream-children! When we were 
both old enough to understand the meaning of love, he told 
me that he reciprocated my affection. I had always known 
it, but the affirmation gave me exquisite joy. Then came the 
fear that our cousinly relationship and his studies would 
separate us. Both were overcome, and now-” 

Sister Grace was deeply affected by her recital. “And 
now,” she echoed, “You face the possible sacrifice of your 
dream-child for its father’s sake.” 

She ignored the nun’s comment, but asked point-blank: 
“If the one supreme desire of your life was to have a child 
of your very own, to have as the father of that child the com- 



322 


SOUL TOYS 


panion of your youth, because he was physically, mentally 
and morally your equal, would you not be justified in de¬ 
manding that he be not taken from you—that your longing 
be first satisfied ? ” 

“A most brazen statement, utterly unbecoming to one of 
your training!” the Mother Superior commented tartly, 
as she scowled her disapproval, but hardly could find words 
to express her indignation further. 

“But with lots of meat in it! ” Cornie came to his daugh¬ 
ter’s support. 

“It is the man’s responsibility,’’ Jean retorted. “If Keats 
decides that he does not want to marry you, but prefers to 
become a priest, it will not be for you to object.” 

“No, I am to be compliant and say, ‘My good lord and 
master, throw away my happiness, murder my children! ’— 
No!—We are one now, I tell you, our souls are married— 
always have been. I will fight! You hear? I will fight for 
my right to happiness, and for my children! ” 

“You are only a child yourself,” Mother Justine gently 
chided her. She did not yet appreciate the full significance 
of her plea. “There are many more young men for you to 
select from. Do not stand in the way of Keats’ career.” 

“I demand the right to choose the father of my children! 
I have selected Keats. If you insist on his becoming a 
priest, very well, I shall bow to your wills on that point; we 
cannot be married—but I will still insist upon my right— 
and our child will be born outside of lawful wedlock! ” 

She had stripped her dream of every vestige of prudery! 
They viewed the naked reality of a demanding, craving child- 
hunger ! 

“I really think it is high time that we all leave,” Clare 
said abruptly as she stood up, her cheeks scarlet. 

“No! ” Mother Justine waved her back. “Such a state¬ 
ment cannot be left unanswered. This matter must be set¬ 
tled here and now, once and for all time! ” Clare sank down 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


323 


into her chair, for the stern expression would brook no re¬ 
fusal. 

“It is a very delicate matter to discuss, but the marriage 
relation is far too sacred an institution to be lightly set aside. 
It is the holiest, the most beautiful of all. It is the rosebud 
of romance in full bloom! Cornelia, you must put such 
wicked ideas out of your mind. It would be wrong under 
any circumstances and to suggest such a thing with a student 
for the priesthood—unthinkable! ” The Mother’s breast 
heaved in her indignation. Suddenly, the teacher spoke out: 
“I forbid you to think of such a thing! ” 

“Forbid! Huh! ” Cornie sneered. “As well order the 
infant life, ready to be born, to stay in darkness and not find 
light in the world, as to command the thought, already born 
in the soul, to remain there and not find light in the mind! 
You can accomplish the first, only by killing the life of the 
child, the second, by murdering the soul of the thinker! ” 

“Surely you do not approve your daughter’s wild ideas?” 
the Mother remonstrated. 

“I am neutral,” he responded. “But I respect her right to 
her own happiness, to express her individual views, to think 
for herself! ” 

“No happiness can be found in breaking moral laws, not 
to say legal ones,” was her positive retort. 

“I question even that! ” he persisted. “Love, the effort to 
express the true beauty of the soul, knows no law! ” 

“You advocate free love then—no marriage bonds at all, 
I suppose,” she said bitterly. “A pretty world it would be! ” 

“Because one refuses to be a slave to conventions, does not 
mean that they should all be destroyed.” 

“Oh, for others you would keep them, but for yourself 
and your daughter, forget them. Is that it ? ” she asked with 
biting sarcasm. 

During their strained argument, Clare felt as though she 
were a part of Cornelia’s soul. She thrilled with the fervor 


324 


SOUL TOYS 


of her soul longing, but not until the Mother joined Cornie 
with his daughter as outcasts did she emerge from her silence. 

“I was once afraid to break the rules of Society’s game,” 
she said revealing her own experience: “I bowed to the dic¬ 
tates of what others did and thought and said. I lived to 
regret. Only when I was strong enough to brave the scandal¬ 
monger, to venture beyond the accepted pale did I find hap¬ 
piness—but as soon as possible, I sought the friendly pro¬ 
tection of , the golden bond.” 

“And what are you advising? ” the Mother asked coldly. 

“She is approving a liason between your priest-to-be and 
my daughter, that they may bring a child into the world to 
satisfy her longing, because you religious fanatics are trying 
to keep them from entering the lawful bonds of matrimony, 
in order that you may gain a priest for your Church! You 
are making it the slaughter-house of love! ” Cornie peppered 
the argument. 

“I take it, you want to reduce the sex relation to the level 
of animal instinct,” Jean retorted. 

“Again the war is on! ” Clare spoke as if from the past. 
“The cohorts of Materialism—Cornie, Cornelia, and now 
myself— against the ranks of Spiritualism—Mother Justine, 
Sister Grace and Jean! On one banner is written ‘Satisfy 
your love on this earth!' on the other: ' Chastise the body, 
save the soul ! 3 ” 

“I am surprised!” Jean observed. “I thought you had 
really become a Soul-Mate. I believe Keats’ highest duty, 
his first duty, is to his ideal—the service of his God and his 
fellowmen! ” 

“I always said I was as much a Heart-Mate as a Soul- 
Mate, you know that! ” 

Keats had been sitting with his head resting on his 
hands, his elbows on his knees. Now he suddenly looked 
up. “I have been silent,” his words came slowly, softly, 
almost painfully, “because my soul will not give up either 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


325 


of its toys—the Church or Cornelia, my love. I have been 
trying so hard to think, to decide.” He shook his head 
sadly. “I don’t know what to say—really—I don’t know 
what to say.” He looked toward Cornelia and then at his 
mother, helplessly, childishly, as if expecting them to decide 
for him. 

“You are upset, not yourself.” Mother Justine as usual 
took charge of the situation. “He has had several shocks,” 
she explained to the others. “He must have time to con¬ 
sider; surely there is no need for an immediate decision. 
Return to your studies. Cornelia will have her father to 
keep her busy, and then when your next summer’s vacation 
comes, you will both be steadier, older, and more prepared 
to plan your future.” 

Cornelia could only stare at Keats while he drank in the 
Mother’s words, which seemed to him as divine guidance in 
his dilemma. 

“Yes, Aunt Mary, yes, you are right,” he agreed brokenly. 

Cornelia, with a shrug, gave up her present battle, but with 
a sudden squaring of her shoulders, gave her final word: “I 
consent, but understand, I will not relinquish my soul desire! 
Do I make my meaning clear? Keats will always be the 
one man in my life! ” 

“And you will always be the one woman in mine! ” he 
avowed earnestly. 

He crossed to her and held her hands for a moment; then 
they fell into each other’s arms. Finally they separated, as 
if each second together was too painful to prolong. 

Cornelia went to Sister Grace and kissed her; then to 
Mother Justine and rested her head wearily on her shoulder. 
When she kissed her Uncle Jean the tears would not be 
held back, and she finally gave way as she hugged Clare. 

The farewells were hastily said. Keats had a strange feel¬ 
ing as he bade his real mother, good-bye. She looked at him 
with such proud eyes that, for the second, his only thought 
was, “I must never, never, fail her.” 


326 


SOUL TOYS 


At last they were all gone and the two nuns embraced. 
“My dear, you have cleared away the mists, you were God’s 
messenger! ” the Superior exclaimed. 

“But after the mists, came the real fog. I fear Nature 
will be too strong for them.” 

“Keats will never break his vows.” 

“But he has not taken them as yet, he is only a student.” 

“God will watch over them.” 

“I hope so, we must pray for them. Life is so hard at 
times. The appreciation of the Beautiful would soften it, I 
think.” 

“There is Beauty in everything, but our eyes are closed, we 
do not see it. Cornelia’s passionate cry for Motherhood is 
one of Life’s beauties. Keats’ faithfulness to Duty is 
another.” 

“She sees only the Beautiful, she has dared to free her¬ 
self from all thoughts of ugliness. Her seeming boldness is 
really the innocence of the child, who knows no wrong in 
what it says,” Sister Grace pointed out. 

“But the child cannot distinguish between Good and Evil.” 

“It does not know the Evil. All is Good and Beautiful. 
If we were all like that there would be no distinction. ‘Honi 
soit qui maly pense!’” 

It was only after Sister Grace had retired that the wonder 
of the finding of her son came upon her. “Keep him clean,” 
she prayed. “Give him back to me.” 

She thought of Keats’ father, and then of her present 
husband, the Church. “His father is gone, he belongs to us 
now. Send him to us,” she prayed with a new fervor. 

Cornelia too, in the quiet of her own room on her bended 
knees, was praying: “Show me the way to realize my fond¬ 
est hopes. Take him, take everything away from me, only, 
please God, first let him be the father of my wonder child— 
my soul-child! ” 

A Madonna-like peace and holiness spread over her face, 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


327 


as she whispered her strange prayer: “Oh, Mary, Mother 
of Sorrow, help me! Help me to hear my dream-child! 
Mine and Keats’!” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Back at school, Keats soon regained his composure. As in 
the early isolation of his life at “Soul’s Desire,” his naturally 
studious and retiring disposition reveled in the seclusion 
which the divinity school permitted. He gave himself up 
entirely to his studies and took no part in the school activities 
or the college pranks and enjoyments of his fellow students. 
He was not even regular in his correspondence with Cornelia. 
His affection for her was something he took for granted; 
it was a part of himself, and always would be; but it troubled 
him no more than the care of his hair, which occasionally 
required special treatment to be made to lay flat, but ordi¬ 
narily responded to brush and comb. 

Cornelia, however, found the situation much harder. Her 
love, and she could never decide whether it was her love for 
Keats alone or as the prospective father of her children, 
would not be quiet and in control, but flared up constantly 
with an insistence which required her to write and write to 
Keats—many letters to his one. What was it that held 
this impetuous, beautiful, willful creature to the considering, 
reserved, almost shy boy? She was the cave-woman type, 
determined to pound and force her way to the consummation 
of her wishes. She did not stop to analyze her emotions, 
but strangely did not often think of marriage. It seemed 
superfluous. “If one really loved, what difference would 
the few words of the priest make?” she would think. 

Clare and Jean spent the winter with Cornie and Cornelia 
at the old Wildner home. Cornelia continued her studies 
and was constantly, as she put it, “dragging her father, aunt 
and uncle all over town.” She did not care for others of her 
own age, they bored her. 


328 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


329 


To Clare, she confessed one day that, “No one under¬ 
stands me." She took her aunt by the hand and led the 
way to her room. There she opened a closet door where, 
carefully arranged in ten little beds, were a like number of 
dolls representing children of every race. 

“You will laugh at me!” she cried, as suddenly, overcome 
by her emotions, she threw herself on the bed, laughing and 
crying hysterically. 

“No, I understand,” Clare soothed softly. “I, who have 
no children and never can have any, I understand your long¬ 
ing. And my child, there is something else that you do not 
know that may explain your feelings.” 

“Oh, tell me, Aunt Clare! Sometimes I think I must be 
crazy! That is why I cannot join in the silly talk with 
other girls. These,” she pointed to the dolls, “mean so 
much to me. To them, the very thought of children calls 
forth silly giggles.” 

“My dear, your mother longed for your birth so that she 
might hold the love of her husband. Your coming meant 
more to her than that of the ordinary child, no matter how 
great the joy of its arrival. You were her hope of happi¬ 
ness, you were her life!” 

“Do you think that may account for the way I feel ?” 

“Perhaps! And you have also a part of your father’s 
intensity of desire.” 

“I had to tell you, to show someone, or I would have gone 
out of my mind.” 

“Thank God, my dear, that undoubtedly you will be able 
to satisfy your desires.” 

“But, Keats—” 

“You must not be too certain of him. He may decide to 
continue his studies. I would not count too much on him.” 

“He is everything to me!” 

“I know, I know. He will be home soon for his vacation 
and then you and your father will come to ‘Soul’s Desire,’ 


330 


SOUL TOYS 


too. He has promised me the month of July, so you have 
something to anticipate.” 

“Something to anticipate!” Cornelia echoed. 

Early in the Spring Clare and Jean returned to “Soul’s 
Desire,” and the last day of June found Keats back with 
them. A few days later Cornelia and Cornie arrived. 

Cornelia found Keats more sobered, more reserved. She 
caught her breath in fear after the first day, for she could 
see that while he gave every evidence of his affection for her, 
he was not the active lover she had hoped to find, but one 
who looked open to reason, pro and con. Life had become 
a more serious thing to him than ever, and love a thing apart. 
To her—love was life! 

She determined as she lay sleepless that first night of their 
reunion, that she must act and act quickly, if she were to win. 
She dozed off, and when she awoke the first tints of the 
dawn were in the eastern sky. They touched the hazy 
mountain peaks like calcium stage lights. She slipped a 
flimsy, veil-like wrap over her night gown and sat at the 
window gazing into the misty cloud-filled morning. She felt 
a part of this ghost-like new day. She looked at her watch. 
It was four-thirty! 

A slight cough came from the window of the next room, 
just a few feet away. She knew Keats was in this room. 
Suddenly she felt an overpowering impulse just to look at 
him as he slept, as she used to do when as children they 
were here together. She always was the first to awaken 
and would tip-toe into his room and pull his curly locks. 
She laughed as she thought how surprised he would be to 
see her standing again beside his bed. With the new day 
aborning—a suddenly conceived plan—a mad desire to pull 
his curls once more came over her! 

Quickly she stepped over the sill on to the dew-saturated 
boards of the porch and traversed the few steps to the next 
window. She looked in. There he was, his curly hair on the 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


331 


pillow just as years before! She stepped over the sill into 
his room. Half-way between the window and the bed she 
paused, for he had opened his eyes. He stared as if looking 
at a dream-creature! A frightened second in which she con¬ 
templated rushing out—then a sudden bold determination 
to remain! 

Every man has concealed in a corner of his heart a furtive 
unexpressed wish that some fine morning he will wake up 
and be pleasantly surprised to find his beautiful dream-girl 
actually sharing his room. But Keats knew that in real 
life such happenings are exceedingly rare, so he did not 
believe what his eyes told him. 

Then the unexpected occurred, the dream-girl opened her 
lips and called : “Keats!” 

His veneration for her, for all womankind, made him slow 
to believe the invitation her eyes extended, but his ears af¬ 
firmed his sight. His dream had come true! Almost un¬ 
consciously, he arose and embraced her, just as he had always 
done in his dreams. It was the feel of her in his arms, 
the caress of her lips on his, that really awakened his body— 
and yet stupefied his soul—like a drug which puts the body 
to sleep and awakens the dream mind. 

“I had to come,” she explained, as she met his embrace 
with a fervor that set both aquivering. 

Nature was her strong ally. She had found the way to 
overcome his reason, his reserve, his life! She had shown 
him she could give without thought of her own life, or 
rather with consideration only of another life, and he had 
taken without thought of his Church, of his future, even 
of her! 

As she hurried back to her room the now thoroughly 
awakened earthly lover whispered after her, “Tonight, I 
will come to you.” 

After she had gone he tried to analyze his feelings. He 
experienced certain qualms. “I should have refused to 


332 


SOUL TOYS 


accept her offering, sent her back to her room as she had 
come/’ he thought in self-abasement. He suffered a shock 
of disillusionment. She was no longer on a pedestal, and he 
lost a certain amount of his self-respect. He even felt a 
sort of repulsion, as toward a fallen angel—tainted good— 
divine carrion! 

“And yet/’ he reasoned further, “ it was a natural, an in¬ 
stinctive appetite that we did not hesitate to satisfy; an 
appetite as unmoral in itself as any other—the desire for 
food, for sleep, which becomes moral or immoral only in the 
manner and motive of gratification. The consuming of 
stolen food, sleeping at a post of duty, are unquestionably 
wrong, but who can say that Cornelia’s longing for mother¬ 
hood is not such a sacred instinct as makes her action 
moral ?” 

During the day he tried to get away by himself so that 
he could more thoroughly diagnose the situation, but Cor¬ 
nelia saw to it that he did not. She kept him enthralled in 
the lure of the moment, and when the next day he did stroll 
off alone, he admitted to himself: “If I had had the oppor¬ 
tunity of considering the matter, I never would have per¬ 
mitted Cornelia to sway me, a student for the priesthood, 
to her will, but now—” The physical proximity had fanned 
his dormant love into an active passion, with as gnawing a 
hunger, as insistent a demand for its satisfaction, as her 
ever living desire. 

As the days wore on, a doubt began to assail him as to 
Cornelia’s love. He felt he had to quiet the uncertainty 
which persisted in rising. Carefully he put it into words: 
“Do you really love me for myself, or only as the means for 
you to achieve motherhood?” 

“I love you for yourself, and for that love I would sur¬ 
render myself, body and soul, without restrictions or saving 
clauses. But I love you even more as the prospective father 
of my child, selected by Nature and approved by my affec- 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 333 


tion! The former is a self-gratifying passion, the latter a 
race-duty love!” 

Sometimes there comes to one to whom another is trying 
to give his own viewpoint, a sudden comprehension; an 
understanding penetrates like a great white light flashing 
suddenly in the darkness. So Cornelia’s explanation gave 
Keats a new insight into their relation, and at once the 
justice, the saneness to her of her desire became apparent 
to him. Suddenly his religious soul, which seemed to find 
its joy in his love, as a thing separate and distinct from 
physical attraction, was released at the mother call. At 
every crisis in life, from the baby with his stomach-ache 
to the soldier, dying on the battlefield, it is “Mother” whom 
he calls, and it was this very material mother-thought that 
brought his body more fully to share his love for Cornelia 
with his soul. 

They became immersed in a new relation, a living soul- 
passion that vibrated from heart to heart, from soul to soul! 
An alliance of physical and spiritual forces! Two hearts 
of clay, smitten deeply with the unappeasible desire of the 
flesh; two souls of silver, pierced with the gnawing hunger 
of mother-love and faith’s call; turning into the pure and 
beautiful gold of a mutual love, at the hand of the most 
ancient of chemists, Cupid! 

They were losing their self-consciousness as they renewed 
their childhood knowledge of each other. Forgotten traits 
were remembered and unknown intimacies learned. So what 
seemed strange at first, soon became familiar, and they 
became emancipated from all shyness. The days passed in 
reading aloud to each other, strolling in the woods, or idly 
sitting and talking. They would pass from the crude enjoy¬ 
ments of sensation to the more subtle delights of their culti¬ 
vated minds. 

There was always the half-hidden realization of the 
uniqueness of their situation. It is a mental phenomenon, 


334 


SOUL TOYS 


that the individual must always generalize his actions, try to 
make them fit public opinion. A combination of the Real 
and the Ideal creates the Beautiful, but the result is not 
always agreeable to Public Opinion. 

“I was just thinking what people would say, if they knew,” 
Cornelia felt constrained to say. They had both carefully 
avoided all reference to marriage or their future. 

"‘People have unbending, absolute ideas of what others 
ought to do, and very flexible ones as to their own actions,” 
Keats answered. 

“Why should we be narrow as to others and broadminded 
as to ourselves?” 

"‘I am not, for one. I wish all lovers might have such 
gratification as we are having.” 

“But what sort of a world would it be ?” she speculated. 

“Have you turned into a back-wood’s moralist?” 

"‘No, no, only I was wondering, would the world be any 
worse off, if the shackles of conventionality were thrown 
away?” 

“I don’t know. What has seemed best for our fore¬ 
fathers, I suppose, is best for the majority to follow,” he 
replied. 

"‘But, thank God, there will always be pioneers in love, 
those above the ordinary rules of the game.” 

“I believe morality is what we ourselves believe is right 
and wrong, and not the preconceived notions of others.” 

“Philosophizing so early in the day,” she laughed. “You 
would make each one’s own individual conscience his guide.” 

“Yes, the conscience of the modern man or woman is the 
result of all the thousands of years of thinking, if it has not 
become competent to judge now, it never will.” 

“You do not mean that if, for instance, a murderer’s con¬ 
science approved his act, that he would be morally good?” 
she inquired with interest. 

“Indeed, I do. Take the case of a woman who, in defense 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


335 


of her honor, kills her attacker. Is she a murderer in any¬ 
thing but name? Leave it to Judge Conscience, he will give 
his verdict and no court can set it aside.” 

“It is rather a negative pleasure to discuss such things. 
Are you trying to justify yourself to this stern Judge?” 

He looked down into her face with a serious expression. 
“If I thought I needed justification, I would not remain 
here,” he quietly rebuked her. “You ought to know that.” 
Her answer was a hug—“a mountain-bear hug,” she 
termed it. 

Another evening, Keats and Cornelia sat on the grass, 
resting their heads against a boulder. She expressed 
aloud her thoughts: “Beauty is the perfection of knowledge. 
It is the adaptation of thought to action.” 

“In other words, we can make any deed beautiful by the 
thought that controls it,” he acquiesced. 

She nodded. “I contend that without love we would be 
living an unholy thing—an unthinkable affair.” 

“Then it is love that makes all things right?” 

“It is the Beauty which arises from a reciprocal love, that 
is the bond of perfection. Love cannot be a one-sided affair 
to come under the name of Beauty, it must be two-sided,” 
she asserted clearly; “an harmonious love.” 

“Too many love affairs are unilateral.” 

“Yes, the man does most of the loving before marriage— 
and the wife most of it afterwards,” she agreed. 

“There is no excuse for a husband and wife not continuing 
to love each other, if they are sure before they take the leap. 
Whatever it was they saw in each other before, still lives 
afterward.” 

“But their viewpoint has changed,” she criticised. 

“It can be made one by looking through the same glasses. 
Their love should harmonize the scene,” he insisted. 

Her head was close to his and from time to time he would 
run his fingers tenderly through her silken hair. 


336 


SOUL TOYS 


“Strands of gold,” he murmured in admiring tones. 

“My boy is poetic tonight,” she voiced her appreciation. 

“I was just thinking what a silken web, like your beautiful 
hair, the world spun around our actions. It looked as if it 
had us bound tight with silly old rules, but we tore them 
aside.” 

“Either we must free ourselves and let our lives ripen, or 
permit them to be held tightly until they wither, decay and rot 
away,” she said bitterly. “But we will not permit any chains 
of caste or convention to shackle our soul-child. It must be 
as free as the air we breathe.” 

He seemed very boyish to her as he kissed her, 
with a rush of emotion at her allusion. She felt much older, 
though in years she was younger. Lifting her lips to his, 
their eyes met with an understanding of their mutual love, 
and its hope of perpetuation. 

“You are Beauty incarnate!” he declared with fire in 
his words. 

“And you the depth of Worldly Wisdom! ” she returned 
in adoration. 

“Do I look like that?” He sat up in mock surprise. 

“Oh, don’t get excited. You are much wiser than you 
look—you old owl!” 

He sank back in satisfaction, “How wise do I appear?” 

She smiled as she said, “Wise enough for me. You do 
not look like a lover—or a priest either for that matter.” 

“You know the best soldiers are never warlike; the hardest 
fighters never lose their tempers. But what do I look like ?” 

“A school boy. That is just how I want you to look! 
Eyes that dance with the joy of living, and still show a 
serious background, remembering the next day’s lessons that 
must be learned.” 

“If I am a school boy, you are my school-girl chum!” 

“That is what we were here for years, and that is what 
we are now. I am going to change the name of this place!” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 337 


‘‘What now?” he asked. “You wonderful christener!” 

“Soul's Fulfillment!” 

“Why, that is just the name for it! How did you ever 
think of that ?” 

“I wish I could coin money as easily as names,” she ex¬ 
plained in appreciation of her own talent. 

After dinner it was their custom to walk in the moonlight, 
and on such an occasion, Cornelia felt the caresses of Keats' 
eyes even in the darkness. It seemd to her as if his heart 
were in his eyes and his soul in his lips, as he kissed her. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go back to those dreary studies,” 
she complained, as they stood in a loving embrace. 

“They are my life work,” he said sadly. 

“And I am only an incident!” she mused in a woeful voice. 

“No. You have always been the spirit that permeated my 
work, the inspiration leading me on.” 

Again they stepped away from decisions and returned to 
their love making. 

At Clare’s request, one bright morning, they climbed a 
neighboring mountain peak, seeking violets. Following a 
thread of yellow which stretched like fire through the grass 
they finally reached a rocky ledge; where they rested, 
dangling their limbs in the open space. 

“I feel as if we were sitting on top of the world,” Keats 
ventured. 

“I am Queen of all I survey!” She laughingly waved her 
hands into space. 

“How would you like to be the arbiter of ladies’ fashions ?” 
he asked. “That is one throne you could fill.” 

“I would make motherhood come back into style,” was 
her serious prediction. 

“Oh, listen to the lady! She wants to design maternity 
gowns!” 

“They should be the leading style. But alas! they are 
mostly back numbers!” she regretted. 


338 


SOUL TOYS 


“They shirk the responsibility,” he maintained. 

“Because they live over-stimulated lives, unnatural ones. 
Back to Nature, back to Beauty, should be the modern 
woman’s slogan.” 

“What of her careers?” he resumed. 

“Every woman is ambitious to fulfil her God-given des¬ 
tiny. If she has a voice, why shouldn’t she use it? If she 
can play, it is her duty to inspire. So in every art and field. 
But she can not restrain her instinct for mating, for mother- 
hood. Because in addition to her usual heritage, there has 
been added a talent that demands expression, she should not 
give up one of the fundamental purposes of her existence.” 

“But Motherhood will hamper her career,” was his 
comment. 

“She will overcome every handicap, if you can call it that. 
I would say, the additional inspiration was greater than 
any annoyance,” Cornelia debated. “I would so love to 
rescue every woman from her bondage, to let her love as I 
love, to live as I am living!” 

“Too much freedom, my dear, is not good for little souls,” 
he reminded her. 

“But it should make them grow bigger, as I feel I am 
developing.” 

“Or make them grow smaller,” he added sadly. 

“Not as yours?” she asked in alarm. 

“Frankly, at times my religious training questions whether 
our actions have been right, or righteous, should I say? 
I swim along for a time in perfect enjoyment, then I sink 
in despair, and come up again when I look into your eyes!” 

She shuddered as she drew him in to her arms as if to 
stifle his fears, and murmured her faith: “The force that 
drew us together is the same as rules the stars in the heavens. 
Love hallows all!” 

And in the love-light that their eyes reflected to each 
other, they found confidence in the future. 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


339 


Early one morning towards the end of the month, just as 
Keats was about to step out of Cornelia’s window, Jean came 
around the corner of the house. Keats drew back into the 
room as Jean passed by. The latter said, later in the day, 
that he had been unable to sleep so had arisen early and 
taken a walk. 

When Keats backed into the room, every bit of color was 
gone from his face. A peculiar, ironical smile played upon 
it as he said, “Unconventional love must seek secrecy and 
the dark, the abode of the guilty.” 

Cornelia, too, had caught a glimpse of Jean. “You are 
doubting again,” she admonished. “I am tired of prodding 
along your sensitive feelings!” 

“My senses need no urging, but my conscience disturbs 
me at times,” Keats retorted. “I do not like the dark.” 

“Your conscience! What are you losing by this? Think 
of me,” peevishly the girl told him. 

“I am afraid of losing my self-respect,” he confessed 
slowly. 

She began to cry, for the first time since they had been 
together. “I suppose I have no self-respect. I am only a 
terrible vampire who lured you from the path of virtue.” 

“Now don’t be silly,” he reproved her. “You know I 
accepted of my own free will, and I do not regret. I hope 
I never will! I realize you are quite as much the loser—or 
the gainer—as I am; but doubts—no one can prevent them.” 

“You are not very complimentary,” she objected. 

“We like to neglect our own fields and go to weeding 
others. We prate of Beauty and Diety but we give our 
words the lie, by our own actions.” 

“Oh, you want to practice what you preach, now, I sup¬ 
pose! This is not beautiful, this is not good, what is it 
then ?” she blazed, her eyes flashing fire. 

He looked at her in astonishment. 

“Why, Cornelia, I had no idea—I did not intend to stir 


340 


SOUL TOYS 


you so. Calm yourself. I love you—everything is all right. 
This is the most beautiful time of our lives. I know that— 
but Jean’s coming like that, upset me.” 

“Oh, you were afraid he would find out?” 

“That is unworthy of you, and you know it,” he replied 
calmly. “Fear is the one thing I pride myself on not having. 
As far as I am concerned, I would not object to telling Jean, 
or anyone else, about our being here as we are. But the 
world is not yet ripe for a love relation like ours, pure as it 
is, yes, holy as it is! For my part, I believe that a legal 
marriage without mutual love is really immoral, while I do 
honestly believe that a true love, a mutual love relation such 
as ours, is moral.” 

“But it is not best for the majority,” she could not but 
decide nor help saying. “That is why we must keep this 
secret. It is best for all that the marriage institution be kept 
inviolate, but there will always be some few who are above 
all institutions, until the years bring their rights to general 
recognition.” 

“It was Man who made the laws, but Woman who es¬ 
tablished the conventions,” was his comment. 

“And by centuries of resignation she has come to feel that 
she must abide by her own creation,” said Cornelia. 

“A man or a woman who really loves,” he clasped her to 
him, “rises above all restrictions and bounds that keep him, 
or her, from the object of affection. They stand under the 
Law of Love only; that law respects the right of the be¬ 
loved alone to agree or object to the course of action of the 
other. Most lovers do not fear punishment, but only the 
conventional consequences. The arrangement of the love 
relation should be an entirely private affair between them, 
unless the rights of third parties are affected.” 

“A third party sometimes does come into the case, fur¬ 
nishing another element.” 

“Under ordinary conditions that complicates the situation, 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


341 


of course,” he admitted. “But every child, legitimate or il¬ 
legitimate, has identical rights. The parents owe the same 
obligation and should have the courage to fulfil it. We 
have a false viewpoint in such matters/’ 

“We ought to try to restore the ancient love for bodily 
strength and beauty, and reverence for the divine character 
of the preservation of the species. There should be no 
thought of degradation in the continuation of the race, in or 
out of wedlock; but the love of the senses and the love of 
the soul should be combined into a single Love Beautiful 
which colors with rose hues every new being that comes into 
the world under its light.” Cornelia embodied in this sum¬ 
ming up, her entire creed. 

“I agree with you that the child is holy, even if the love 
of the parents is profane—as is any relation without love, 
soul-love. No one disapproves more than I of trial mar¬ 
riages, of all loose relations. They are coarse, soulless lusts. 

I loathe them! What I am trying to say is, that the helpless 
children who are not asked if they wish to be born, should 
not bear the stigma that our present moral code gives them,” 
Keats continued. “The right to motherhood that it denies 
all women outside of wedlock is wrong, I believe. If cir¬ 
cumstances are such that marriage is not possible, or would 
destroy the purpose of their lives, I think the mother-love 
should be given outlet and the mutual soul-love be perpetu¬ 
ated. It is always a question of the depth of their feeling.” 
He stopped for a moment and then went on: “I would not 
be afraid to acknowledge any child of mine, but under the 
present system, I would have to ask his pardon for doing so.” 

“Forgive me, dearest, for saying that you were afraid. I 
know you are far braver than I am. Kiss me! Let us 
forget everybody again, everything but our own beautiful 
love.” 

He kissed away the tears that had come to her eyes in 
remembrance of her taunting him of his fear, and then re¬ 
turned to his room. 


342 


SOUL TOYS 


Jean and Cornie had gone for a walk, Clare was busy, and 
Cornelia and Keats had the morning to themselves. They 
sat in the shade of an old elm and surrendered each to the 
mood of the other. They forgot the outside world; remem¬ 
bered only their own love, and sat for hours breathing re¬ 
newed assurances of their undying devotion. 

Suddenly Keats exclaimed: “I can’t go back, that’s all 
there is to it! We cannot live without each other, and why 
should we? Is not our own happiness and that of the little 
one who will come, more to us than all the rest of the world? 
Our mutual love has conquered me! ” 

She drew him to her with a sigh, but could not speak. 

“There is a happiness that makes one afraid,” she whis¬ 
pered. “It is too good to be true. I am afraid I will wake 
up and find your words only my imaginings.” 

“You will marry me?” For a moment a fear clutched 
his heart that she would refuse the conventional denouement 
of their romance. 

She smiled, “Will I? You can just bet I will! Maybe 
you think I like this free-love stuff, but I don’t—no woman 
does—no matter what she says! But ‘all is fair in love’ and 


“The selection of the father of one’s children,” he mocked 
her former vehemence. “Behold the Personally Selected of¬ 
fering himself to the Selector! ” 

“I suppose you feel like the sacrificial lamb.” 

“One escaped now and then. No chance for me,” he 
retorted. 

“I’ll say there isn’t. I’ve got you tight.” 

“But I was hard to get! You’ll admit that,” was his come¬ 
back. 

“You certainly were. Shall we tell the folks? ” 

Keats agreed and they took the news to their elders. 

“We have not had our eyes closed,” Clare said. They 
both glanced quickly at her, but saw she only meant their 
outward attitude. 



THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


343 


After the others had gone Jean said to Keats, “I am not 
surprised.” As their eyes met, Keats knew that he had not 
avoided Jean’s keen eyes that morning. 

“I am not going to lecture you, my boy. All I want to tell 
you, is that you took a very long time to make up your mind; 
and further that, after what I saw that morning, if you had 
not told us what you now have, you never would have gotten 
away from here alive, that’s all;” he laughed good-naturedly; 
“but I knew what was coming, so I had no fear of having to 
use violence.” 

“Good old Dad! ” was all Keats could say. 

Later when Jean and Clare were alone, they discussed the 
strange situation. 

“What a tenacity of purpose, what a stubborn retention of 
her soul desire! ” Clare declared. 

“It shows what the released soul can do,” Jean deduced. 

“But is it always wise to have our soul wishes fulfilled ? ” 
his wife asked. 

“No, that is the great fear I have had. Once released, the 
soul can accomplish either good or evil. It is not of itself 
one or the other.” 

“Sort of neutral,” Clare commented. 

“It is as pure white, ready to be colored in accordance 
with the desire that actuates it,” Jean added. “We should 
acquire a sense of sober responsibility. Like all forces, once 
released its power is limitless. It has the ability to renovate 
all human relations.” 

Mother Justine, when told of Keats’ intention to give up 
his studies for the priesthood, wisely said, “If his heart is 
elsewhere than in his work, it is best for him to relinquish it, 
before he takes his final vows and finds it too late.” 

“But what a splendid priest he would have made! ” Sister 
Grace could not restrain a sigh of regret. 

“The Church’s loss is another’s gain,” was her Superior’s 
answer. “The family, the marriage relation, is the founda¬ 
tion of all.” 


344 


SOUL TOYS 


“You never complain, Mother, but see good in everything.” 

“I have come to know, that all things are for the best; 
that our souls will have their way, no matter what we may 
do. Why not accept things as they are? This world, and 
the people in it, are really not so bad as some of us like to 
believe.” 

“A comfortable philosophy,” the sister observed. 

“To me at any rate,” Mother Justine replied, with an 
amused shrug. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


In the chapel of the building where so many important 
events of her life had occurred, St. Mary’s Academy, on 
a hot August day, Cornelia was united in marriage to Keats. 
That it be celebrated there was the wish of both Mother 
Justine and Sister Grace, who were present with the others 
of the family. 

The newlyweds honey-mooned at Long Beach and planned 
their future. Keats decided to become a Knights of Colum¬ 
bus secretary. 

“My work will be both religious and secular,” he told his 
wife. “I will be a teacher as well as a preacher, and will 
help to bring beauty into the lives of many.” 

They took an apartment in New York and Cornelia 
hurled herself into Woman’s Club work, specializing on 
Motherhood problems. 

One evening at the dinner table, she was telling Keats of 
the sad case of an unmarried mother whom she had aided. 

“I do not blame her in the least,” she asserted; “marriage 
was impossible. Conventions are only made to be broken, 
anyway.” 

“Conventions?” Keats shrugged his shoulders. “Listen, 
as my wife, you must promise never to break the—the 
conventions.” 

“There you are, taking on the respectabilities of an old 
married man, already!” she laughed. “I will have you 
understand, that you will not be lord and master of my soul! 
I think I have demonstrated in my own life, that the mere 
words of the marriage ceremony do not make the couple who 
stand before the priest—man and wife.” 

“I know—what is your stock phrase? Oh—yes—mutual 


345 


346 


SOUL TOYS 


love—that is what we have—isn’t it?” he came back with 
a grin. 

“Mutual love—that is what binds one to another. But it 
leaves the souls equal, one not above the other.” 

“Granted! But I know yours will rule mine!” 

“Beauty must govern both our souls!” she replied. “It 
is the lack of the perception of the beauty in life, even in 
the daily contact of married people, that causes so many 
romances to go on the Rocks of Unhappiness.” 

“We will surely steer clear of them,” he asserted. 

Clare and Jean went South for the winter. On their 
return in the Spring, they stopped in New York for a few 
weeks. 

“I have kept a surprise for you,” Cornelia told them at a 
dinner party at which her husband and father were the 
other guests. 

“I love surprises,” Clare said. 

“You will be astonished to hear what a splendid teacher 
daddy has become,” Cornelia informed them. 

“Indeed,” Clare remarked, “I never thought of him as a 
teacher.” 

Cornie laughed. “I expect you will say, like Jonah did 
to the whale after he was inside it, ‘This never would have 
happened if you had kept your mouth shut/ ” 

“You never did do that,” she retorted. “But what and 
where do you teach? We can not stand the suspense much 
longer!” 

“The beauty of the human form—at the Institute of Arts.” 

“You have had plenty of experience with the female 
branch,” she could not restrain saying. 

Jean did not like the trend of the conversation. “A sort 
of sculptor’s course?” he asked. 

“Not entirely. I have a sculptor and an artist assisting 
me, and living models to make the lectures clear.” 

“Dad has really broadened in his old Beauty Cult,” Cor- 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


347 


nelia asserted. “He realizes the spiritual essence in every 
beautiful feature of the body, and you would be astonished 
how he brings out these points in his lectures. There is a 
certain model,” she said with a merry twinkle in her eyes, 
“ a little curley-headed doll whose beauty has helped daddy 
a great deal.” 

Clare smiled, “I was waiting for the catch. I knew it 
would come.” 

“Now I don’t want you to make fun of little Lily Leiter— 
she is as good as she is beautiful,” Cornelia protested. 

“Certainly, my dear,” Clare agreed; “but Cornie can 
admire the good as well as the beautiful.” 

“Someone has said that Goodness and Beauty are iden¬ 
tical,” Cornie ventured. 

“There is a beauty in Purity, a freshness in Innocence, 
that mere Worldliness cannot conceive,” Keats contrived to 
say. 

His wife looked at him, but made no reply. 

“All Beauty must have the same root of identity,” Jean 
responded. “For all Beauty comes from God. But there is 
the same difference between a Spiritual Beauty and Worldly 
Beauty as between the white rose and the red rose, both 
have the same root of identity, are earth born and heaven 
seeking.” 

“I am afraid my father will take the fatal step again,” was 
Cornelia’s casual utterance. 

She was not prepared for his excited reply: “And why 
not? Am I to go through the rest of my life alone, because 
of my past misfortunes? ” 

“You surely ought to know your own mind by this time,” 
Clare told him. 

“I do like Lily,” Cornie admitted. “She is so fairy-like, 
she seems like my better spirit.” 

“I didn’t know you had one,” Clare ventured. 

“I am going to ask her to marry me! ” Cornie confessed 
openly. 


348 


SOUL TOYS 


“Don’t worry as to her reply,” Cornelia comforted him. 

“What is there about you to attract such a girl?” Jean 
asked. 

“Kind, sweet words, those; but I am thick skinned. I will 
tell you,” he vaunted lightly, “it is my indescribable charm!” 

“O, my conceited father,” Cornelia declared. “He thinks 
he is an Apollo. It’s his cave-man methods—that’s what it 
is!” 

“I think he has a magic wand,” Keats gave as his view¬ 
point. “He conjures up a little fairy and then hypnotizes 
her into loving him. Tell us the secret.” 

“An old man’s darling—you know—there is an attraction,” 
Cornelia maintained. 

“In a few years you will be old and bent and she fluttering 
like a young bird. May and November can never meet! ” 
Jean urged. 

“You jealous creatures!” Cornie shouted. “I will be 
happy in spite of everything. Just watch me. I am going 
to meet her now, good-bye.” He ran like a boy to show them 
he was not as old as they thought. 

“He’s a wonder!” Jean commented. 

The conversation of the early evening seemed to determine 
Cornie’s course of action. After he had called for his Lily 
and she sat next to him in his car, he looked at her with 
worshipping eyes. Her filmy gown was of violet hue, silver 
gleaming beneath it; a dainty little wisp of a bonnet topped 
her yellowish, almost white hair, and her tiny features. 
She was like a Dresden china figurette. 

He could not restrain a compliment. “Like Aphrodite 
rising in beauty from the fairy foam of the sea, with the 
mists about her,” he said solemnly. 

“Oh, you flatterer!” she chided him. “Because you see 
me pose, is no reason to call me Aphrodite.” 

“She was the ancient Goddess of Beauty. You have trans¬ 
lated my mental vision of her into your being.” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


349 


“I think you are perfectly wonderful,” she breathed. “You 
know so much. Poor little me, I try to remember everything 
I hear, but I forget when to use it.” 

“You simple little child,” he soothed her. “It is your very 
naturalness that is your charm, and your beautiful face and 
figure. God doesn’t want you to work your little brain too 
hard.” 

“Little brain—well, I like that! ” she objected with a pout. 

“You know how I meant it. Simplicity has a charm all its 
own. You are young, you have plenty of time to broaden 
yourself.” 

“Broaden myself ? I don’t want to get fat!” 

He laughed, “I like you just as you are now.” 

“But I must bore you!” 

“Bore me? I am never my real self except when I am 
with you. There is a magic elixir in your very presence that 
brings back my youth. The spring and summer of my life 
are past, I am now in the autumn. Will you help me to 
enjoy it, and with me watch it fade into winter?” 

There crept into his voice a cadence that made it a love- 
song of maturity rather than youth, and she caught the 
sweet sadness that his words portrayed. 

“I want to help you,” she cooed. “But what can I do?” 

“Everything—you can be my companion—my wife!” 

“Oh, I never thought of such a thing!” 

“Am I too old?” 

“No—no—not that—” 

“Have you heard of my other marriages?” 

“Yes—no—that is, of course I know Mrs. Keats Wildner 
is your daughter.” 

Pitilessly he confessed his past: “You must know before 
you give me your answer. My first wife was Clare—my 
brother Jean is married to her now. I loved her. She 
cared only for him. He was a dreamer—she was afraid 
he would not give her the luxuries she craved. She married 


350 


SOUL TOYS 


me for what I could give her and I found it out—too late. 
I made her my Love Toy!” he became vehement, almost 
forgetting his companion. “I played with her until I tired 
of her, then I threw her aside, like a broken plaything. She 
went to my brother. I secured a divorce.” 

Lily shuddered. She pictured herself also tossed aside, 
after a little while. They reached a park, and he suggested 
they get out and sit on a bench for a time. After they were 
seated, he continued: 

“Clare was selfish, cruel, and I became the same.” He 
paused. “My second was Meta, Cornelia’s mother. I did 
not love her until just before I married her. She had al¬ 
ways loved me. She mothered me, and I learned in the short 
time we were married, to care for her fondly—She died when 
our baby came—I have never forgotten her. She was the 
the one lasting thing in my life. I feel she still looks after 

_ „ a 

me. 

Lily looked at this man, with his paradoxical emotions, in 
a new light. He was not the carefree admirer after all. 

“My third-” 

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment. “His third —how 
many wives did he have?” she asked herself. 

“My third was Christine—a Follies girl. ‘The Golden 
Sphinx,’ I called her. She never talked, unless she had to. 
I used to think, ‘If only she would say something!’ And 
when she did—‘If only she would keep quiet!’ Her 
language was impossible, her demands continuous. Finally, 
she left me for a man with more money. I let her get the 
divorce. I never loved her, I was caught in the web of her 
beauty and the glamour of the footlights.” 

“Were there others?” she could not hold back her fears. 

“No, not wives; but sweethearts; yes, mistresses,” he 
come out boldly, determined that she should know all, from 
him alone. 

“And now ? ” she questioned naively. 



THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


351 


“Now, I am a different man—I once had a dreadful af¬ 
fliction. I was blind for a time, and just then my daughter 
was lost, she ran away from school! ” 

His voice broke with the recollection. “I realized that 
there was something more to life than personal gratification. 
I felt a touch of this when my wife Meta, died, but, well I 
tried to drown my sorrow and succeeded. It was different 
when I couldn’t see. The very eyes of my soul seemed to 
open then. So I love you differently than I have ever loved 
before. There is no one but you now. It seems as if there 
never was anyone but you.” 

“Are you sure you really love me? ” 

“I am, but differently than you may think. I respect you, 
because I know you are a good girl in every sense of the 
word. I worship you, as I do the wonders of Nature. I 
love you, as I do life itself! ” 

Lily hesitated to speak after this outburst—she was over¬ 
come by wonder at his love. 

He thought to bring her back to earth by seeming to be 
natural. “There is a peculiar proceeding in the Catholic 
Church,” he said, “when a new saint is proposed to be 
canonized. A Devil’s Advocate is appointed, whose duty it 
is to advance every possible argument against canonization. 
So I have been the Devil’s Advocate against myself.” 

“You are very honest,” was all she could manage to say. 

“There is also appointed, a God’s Advocate,” he whis¬ 
pered, “who must suggest all favorable facts in favor of 
canonization.” 

“Let me be God’s Advocate,” she whispered in turn, “and 
tell you that you are the only one who can fill my heart.” 

“Notwithstanding all I have told you? ” he insisted. 

“Yes, you have been as much wronged, as wronging, in 
your marital affairs, and your love of Beauty has been your 
greatest fault—if it is a fault.” And then, “Are you sure 
you want a silly little girl like me ? ” 


352 


SOUL TOYS 


“Want you ? I crave for you! ” he pressed her in his 
arms with as ardent feeling as any youth. 

“I will be true to you, dearest! ” he declared. “You need 
never worry about any other woman coming into my life 
now. You are all woman—all femininity! I have tasted sev¬ 
eral beverages, but you are my Fountain of Youth! ” 

“Oh, I do hope I can make you happy.” 

“I will give you the very simple recipe. All you have to 
do, is to be your own sweet self,” he advised her. 

“You know so little about me.” She began her desire to 
confess too. 

“I know all,” he stopped her; “that you lost your parents, 
were alone in the world—came here to try to become famous 
in the movies; but only succeeded in being an extra and 
finally became an artists’ model. You see I have looked 
you up.” 

She laughed. “There really is little to tell. You see I 
never have lived like you, I have only touched the outer rim 
of life.” 

“With me you shall see it again, that is, all that is beautiful 
and good.” 

“Oh, I want to see everything! At times I have felt so 
cramped.” 

“Never again must you let yourself get into that mood. 
We will travel, you shall see it all under my protection,” he 
added paternally. 

“What a restful feeling, to have someone to love and pro¬ 
tect you! ” she sighed. 

The news of their engagement occasioned no surprise to 
Cornie’s family, but brought out some caustic comments. 

“I wonder if she knows of his other marriages?” Cor¬ 
nelia asked herself, but concluded it was not her affair to 
give the information. 

Clare, however, feared that Lily might endure what she 
had, and felt it her duty to say to her, “Do you know that 
Cornie has been married several times ? ” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


353 


“He told me everything,” was the sharp answer. “I think 
he has been more sinned against than sinning.” 

“A partisan already,” Clare thought; “very well, I wash 
my hands of her! ” 

“He has caught a new and rare little love bird with the 
same old net,” was the way Jean expressed his view to his 
wife. “I wonder how long he will hold her.” 

“I do hope you will be happy, Dad,” Cornelia sincerely told 
him. “You surely have had an exciting life, but has it been 
a happy one ? ” 

“I don’t know, my child. Each time I was wed, I thought 
I had reached the Seventh Heaven of Delight, only to be 
rudely thrown down into the depths of Hell! But still, if I 
could measure the real happiness I have had, with the sor¬ 
row, I suppose I would do the same thing over again. They 
say one moment of perfect happiness is worth a life-time 
of sorrow. I have found that to be true.” 

“Life is very complex, Daddy.” 

“But we have lived, you and I, Cornelia! ” he exulted. “We 
have not vegetated like so many. We have enjoyed, we have 
suffered, we have lived! ” 

“I sometimes question whether action is life, any more than 
thought is life. Uncle Jean, in the quiet calm of his moun¬ 
tains, has lived as much as we have, in the whirl of the 
world.” 

“It is the passing from the sense to the soul and from the 
soul to the sense, that constitutes life,” was the reply. 

“From sense to soul—from the ordinary to the unusual— 
from the transitory to the eternal—that is the path of man’s 
growth.” 

“I think we are all instinctively spiritual, whether we will 
or not. Only it takes a stronger magnet to draw some out 
than others. With me, it was Meta’s death, my affliction, and 
your loss. I have been a different man ever since, although 
outwardly, I probably seemed the same, or worse.” 


354 


SOUL TOYS 


“In my case, it was my love for Keats, that brought out 
my deep mother-love, for the satisfaction of which, I would 
have willingly given my life,” confessed Cornelia. 

It was Jean’s remark that surprised Cornelia, when she 
asked him what he thought of the engagement, after he had 
met Lily. “It will be the marriage of Heaven and Hell,” he 
said in his quiet unassuming way, “the union of Spirit and 
Flesh! A baby, an innocent—to a man of the world, a 
roue. And both have the uncurbed desires of their kind.” 

Once again Cornie took the marriage vows and was tied to 
Lily Leiter by the same knot from which he had so often 
slipped. With his fourth wife, he was as considerate as a 
father to his daughter. In fact, she seemed more like his 
child than his wife. To protect her, to instruct her, to make 
her happy was his constant aim. And she almost venerated 
him, he was the whole of life to her! 

A short time after his marriage, Cornie met Eddie in the 
Astor lobby where the latter was waiting for his wife. 

“Lots of news, Eddie! ” was his greeting. 

“Out with it—I feel like a blotter—ready to soak it in.” 

“Congratulate me twice! ” 

“Twice—you didn’t marry twins! ” 

“Not exactly—but I am married again.” 

“To the sweetest, most perfect girl in the world, I sup¬ 
pose. That’s what you always said.” 

“It’s true, nevertheless. Lily is her name—Lily Leiter.” 

“Lily ? Lilies are for the pure! ” 

“Oh, is that so! Well, straw-flowers are for crusty old 
bachelors! ” 

“Straw-flowers? Dried herring are the kind of sweet 
posies my wife reminds me of! ” 

“Look at me, Eddie! I am going to be a grandfather, 
soon! ” 

“A grandfather! You—ho ho! That’s too good. The 
gay Lothario is going to toddle his grandchildren on his 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 355 


knees! Cornie, the old paymaster of the Follies’ chorus, in 
a new role! The next thing I’ll hear, the sweet Lily has 
presented you with triplets—three little lilies! ” 

“It’s possible, Eddie, you never can tell.” 

“Grand-daddy, eh! Cornelia and Keats—well it will be a 
Wildner anyway.” 

“It surely is strange how the little one will really be like 
Jean’s and mine, both,” Cornie added. 

“A regular family party! ” Eddie termed it. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Cornelia’s first questioning glance to the nurse, after the 
birth of her child, was met by the simple statement—“A 
boy! ” And when she was permitted to hold the wee mite 
close to her breast for just a moment, she murmured, 
“Keats, Junior! ” 

This was the golden moment of consummation of her 
dreams, the achievement of her hopes, the fulfillment of her 
longings! But there was another golden moment, that of 
the beginning, the time of her first active decision just a sum¬ 
mer ago, when in the Catskills she stepped over the window 
sill from the night of her desire to the dawn of her realiza- 
ion. And there was still another golden moment of begin¬ 
ning, when in the old halls of St. Mary’s she boldly put into 
words her determination to gain the end she had now 
reached. And yet farther back, the golden chain extended, 
into her childhood, into her maidenhood days, those many 
golden moments when the inanimate dolls were to her living, 
breathing objects of her affection, and Keats their god-like 
father! Nay more, back to the first Eve there stretches an 
endless chain of golden time, holding all women to the ful¬ 
fillment of their birthright and binding them to their children 
in the holiest of all bonds, links that are never, never broken! 
In the Heaven of Motherhood are many Cities of Refuge, 
where world-weary, society-tired, intellectually exhausted 
women find havens of rest, love and contentment as they 
clasp to their breasts new lives; as, later, baby arms make a 
circle of love about them, and finally, strong hands protect 
and shelter them! 

Keats enjoyed watching the new expressions on his wife’s 
face as she observed their little one’s development. Her 


356 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 357 


own soul seemed to expand with that of the child. He was 
surprised, too, how anxious he was to get home to his son 
from the K. of C. building, and how reluctant to leave him. 

The walls of “Soul’s Desire” once more reverberated with 
familiar footsteps. Clare and Jean took up again the old 
quiet life of the Catskills. Cornelia and Keats, with little 
Keats, as soon as he was old enough to be taken along, spent 
most of their week-ends with them. Frequently the Rabbi 
and Enoch Glynn, and occasionally Mother Justine and Sister 
Grace visited them. 

It was on one of the rare occasions when the little group 
of relatives and friends happened all to arrive on the same 
day, that they gathered on the porch in front of the house. 

“I often wonder, Aunt Mary,” Cornelia addressed the 
Mother by her family name, “if my temperament would have 
been the same, had my mother lived. You know, from my 
earliest remembrance, I looked upward for her in all my 
childish dreams and play, I felt responsible to no one but 
her. It made me sort of wild and expanded my soul.” 

“Undoubtedly, my child, the conditions that surround us 
from our birth, even to our death, influence our lives to a 
great extent,” the Mother reasoned. 

“And chance plays a large part, too,” Sister Grace added. 

“Indeed, yes,” her Superior agreed. “Had you not hap¬ 
pened into my office some time ago, when my family was 
in the midst of a conference, their whole lives might have 
been different.” 

“Well, what about heredity ? ” Glynn asked. “Isn’t that 
something we cannot altogether control ? ” 

“It is what our fathers and our ancestors have been, that 
makes us what we are,” Jean agreed. 

“But our racial instincts, our religious past, really form 
our characters.” The Rabbi promulgated his Laws of Fate. 

“The soul dominates all,” Cornelia declared. “Thank God 
for giving me a soul capable of expansion! ” 


358 


SOUL TOYS 


“How much has happened since we used to gather here 
like this! ” Jean suggested. 

“Life draws some together for a little time, and then scat¬ 
ters them like seeds. The wonder is, that we who are here 
should be on earth at all at the same time,” the Rabbi said. 

“It is strange that just We, Us, and Company, should 
tread the green earth together—and how our paths diverge! ” 
Glynn echoed. 

“Think of the generations who have gone before, and will 
come after us! We are only sandwiched in between the past 
and the future,” Clare reminded them. 

“After us, the deluge! ” Glynn mocked her. 

“No, after us, a higher civilization,” objected Sister Grace. 
“We are stepping stones to the next generation.” 

“Life’s highest duty is to the child,” Mother Justine added. 

“Let’s take a little walk,” Cornelia suggested to Mother 
Justine, who quickly accepted the invitation. 

When they were out of hearing of the others, Cornelia 
exclaimed, “Isn’t it just wonderful, how my life is working 
out ? How my soul desires have been fulfilled! ” 

“All life is marvelous in its development,” the Mother 
replied noncomittally, as she nodded her head. 

“Do you know that Keats and I belonged to each other 
before we were married,” the younger woman whispered in 
confession to her aunt. 

“Jean told me.” 

“I know you will not admit it, but you can see now, that 
I meant what I said,” Cornelia continued: “If we had let 
the old-fashioned conventions hold us back, our whole lives 
might have been different.” 

“You fail to realize the difference between social conven¬ 
tions and moral laws. For example, some mothers become 
very much upset if their daughters wear very short skirts, 
forgetting that their own mothers complained as strenuously 
when their daughters rode bicycles in bloomers. Those are 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


359 


conventions, fashions! And there are fashions in marriages 
as well as clothing, but no moral law is broken in the latter. 
But when the unmarried girl loses her chastity, then a moral 
law is broken; when the married woman becomes an adulter¬ 
ess, a commandment is shattered! There is a great dis¬ 
tinction/’ the Nun explained. 

“But the Decalogue has been ruined by our present-day 
civilization! ” Cornelia protested. 

“The ten commandments still exist and are still the law, 
notwithstanding many have read them out of their lives.” 

“You would not have me regret?” Cornelia persisted. 

“I would it were a holier recollection. The truth must be 
kept from your child. ‘The secret pleasure turns to open 
shame/ That very fact shows its fallacy.” 

“Only because of the conventional viewpoint! ” Cornelia 
defended herself. 

“No, on account of the moral code! ” 

“But when marriage seems impossible?” 

“It is never so, unless it is best that it should be.” 

“That is the old doctrine of an unchangeable fate for 
each.” 

“No, it is the compensatory rule, that we must reap what 
we sow. If we have so placed ourselves that marriage seems 
impossible, it is our own doing and we must abide by our 
action, if we cannot alter the situation by moral and legal 
means.” 

“Yes, suffer needlessly, I suppose,” Cornelia complained. 

“A great deal of suffering is useless, and caused by our 
own follies. We must face life squarely and not try to get 
around it.” 

“I insist that one must have freedom of choice in planning 
his life. What of the two million surplus women in Eng¬ 
land ? Are they to be denied the crowning glory of woman¬ 
kind, the fulfillment of their God-given destiny? Why 
should we beat our wings against the cage wherein we may 


360 


SOUL TOYS 


be confined, if the gate is open through which we can fly ? ” 

“Those who refuse to do so often enjoy their lives more 
than the highfliers, so called. There is a joy in doing one’s 
duty, which seldom permits the bird to grasp the opportunity 
for apparent escape. That is as brave as pioneering.” 

“But there is a great satisfaction in pioneering—moral 
pioneering! The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to 
those who cannot fly! ” 

“Free love is not that kind of pioneering, of soaring! Its 
honey turns to gall; its joy to grief! ” the Nun censured. 

“The natural selection of the father of one’s children is 
such a spirit, I contend,” Cornelia disputed strenuously. 

“I will grant you that perhaps a woman may be justified 
in proposing marriage to a man whom she believes to be 
ideally fitted to be the father of her children, if she loves 
him and knows that he reciprocates her love. The rule that 
requires the male to propose is not a moral law, but only a 
social convention made ancient and honorable by long usage.” 

“But if the man happens to be tied to some life-work, as 
Keats was, which seemed to make marriage impossible ? ” 

“Ah, seemed, that is just the word—seemed to make it 
impossible—but it was not! Had either of you realized that 
your love was so great, that it would ultimately take him from 
his studies, you never would have acted as you did or made 
your desire for motherhood a shield for an unholy passion. 
You should have waited to be sure of yourselves.” 

“Have we not repaid society for our moral lapse by our 
marriage ? ” 

“We do not cheat society, we lower our own resistance, 
by allowing our appetites to dominate us! We do not repay 
society, we conquer ourselves, when we regain our own lost 
estimation. We exalt ourselves alone, or we debase our 
souls! ” 

“But mine was not degraded, it was raised, liberated! ” 

“So you thought at the time, but there always comes a 
moment when unlawful excess brings its own penalty! ” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 


361 


“What would you have had me do? Surrender, or fight 
for my soul desire?” Cornelia demanded. 

“Fight, but openly and squarely! or surrender to the 
right! Consider not punishment, but consequences, to your¬ 
self and others. Make your goal a just one, and your fight 
a clean one. You never can reach any heaven by groveling 
in the dirt.” 

“But one must not shirk because the road is unknown! ” 

“You thought it new, but it is a very old one. It was a 
very imperfect substitute you used. You lowered your ideal, 
when you brought your lover to the same plane of earthly 
surrender as yourself. You both climbed back, the Law of 
Life gives you that opportunity. Very often—no, most 
often—they sink lower, for that same law breaks many, but 
it cannot itself be broken.” 

“Oh, I do thank God, that we did climb back! That the 
Law of Life did not destroy us! ” Cornelia shuddered as she 
said this. 

They returned to the house and joined the others for the 
evening meal. 

The nuns departed directly after leaving the table, as they 
were anxious to get back to the convent. 

The remainder of the party made themselves comfortable 
on the porch and enjoyed the moonlight glow over the moun¬ 
tains. An unearthly calm and peace filled the air. There 
seemed no need for conversation. Nature had the floor. 

Cornelia and Keats were accustomed to arise early while at 
“Soul’s Desire,” but one morning the latter was somewhat 
lazy and remained in bed, to “stretch my weary bones,” he 
put it. Cornelia was seated at the window of their room, a 
lemon-colored negligee draping her slender figure. She 
paused in the operation of drawing stockings of the same 
shade over her shapely limbs as she looked up at her hus¬ 
band and said coquettishly: “How do you love me?” 

“As only one man can love one woman, with all the in- 


362 


SOUL TOYS 


tensity of his body and all the earnestness of his soul! Such 
love can be restrained for a time, but sooner or later it will 
break all bonds, burn through all impediments and reach its 
destiny in a heaven of realization/’ 

He had expressed all the pent-up emotions of her own 
soul. 

“That is what release of the soul means, the power to gain 
your goal against a world of obstacles,” she explained. 

“Marriage is a means of purifying the passions! ” he said 
fervently. 

“Passion needs no cleansing,” she objected. “It merely 
gets unruly at times.” 

“And must be held in leash-” 

“If it can be; rather, direct it along approved lines so 
long as the majority remain as narrow as they are to-day,” 
she continued. 

“The soul desire, if strong enough, will force Passion to 
take the conventional road,” he declared; “but, thank God, 
there will always be some venturesome souls who will climb 
the side paths of unconventionality, and dare to blaze their 
own trail. The gift of passion is God’s greatest gift to man! 
He never really lives, who knows no passionate love—of 
woman—of man—of the good—of the beautiful—of God! ” 

He arose and folded her in his arms. “We surely love 
each other with such a love,” she declared. 

“If there is an example of the restrainer of passion, it is 
the priest; and I truthfully can assure you that I tried to 
live up to that reputation.” 

“If there is any exponent of expression of passion, it is 
the artist! Once I was an artists’ model you know—I tried 
not to destroy her reputation,” she stated. 

“Repression and expression united, give what ? ” he in¬ 
quired. 

“A sort of calm enjoyment, neither hard nor soft, hot nor 
cold, black nor white, a slushy, lukewarm, gray pleasure! ” 
she responded. 




THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 363 


“That is why my repression could not stand. It had to 
give way before the greater force of your expression. And 
it has given us a passionate, beautiful love, that means the 
fulfillment of our every hope and desire.” 

“It almost frightens me,” she protested. 

“You afraid? Unthinkable! ” he replied. 

“You reach such dizzy heights in your dreams, I am terri¬ 
fied lest I fall down.” 

“I will be there to catch you,” he said. “I do not fear to 
face the future with you. We have not winced in the past, 
and surely our heads will not be bowed now.” 

“I will be courageous, for there is so much to be dared,” 
she agreed. 

“What courage these sun-kissed mountains instill into 
one! ” he exclaimed. 

“How good God is, to let us have some great incentive in 
life! ” Cornelia declared as she rested in her husband’s arms. 

Every man finds a new world, when he discovers a domi¬ 
nant purpose for his life—an all-impelling motive. Until he 
does this, he fluctuates and passes to and fro in life’s strug¬ 
gle. His soul does not know its own desire and is enchained. 
He builds, and is astonished at his power—and destroys the 
next day and cares not—for his building was but for the day. 
But when he apprehends his life purpose, recognizes the 
goal he seeks, finds his soul’s desire, he ceases to sway one 
way and another and proceeds on the certain road to real 
accomplishment. 

The verandah of “Soul’s Desire” bounded the house proper 
on four sides and was called the “Promenade deck,” as the 
guests often made the circuit in couples, passing each other 
on the way around. Cornie and his wife were walking in 
one direction and Jean and Clare in the other when they 
met in front of the swing in which Keats and Cornelia were 
seated, as the nurse came out of the house with little Keats 
in her arms. “My own darling! ” the mother called, in an 


364 


SOUL TOYS 


ecstasy of love. “Come to us—our Beauty. You are my 
Soul’s Desire, the World’s Soul Desire!” 

She kissed him as she hugged him to her. Keats took and 
held the little one over her head. “The crown of Mother¬ 
hood ! ” he whispered. 

“In the real marriage relation is the ultimate beauty. The 
family legally tied—religiously bound—lovingly united—is 
the anchor of humanity!” came out from the fullness of 
Jean’s soul. 

“Soul-Mates and Heart-Mates! ” Clare cried, as she 
walked up to them, resting an arm on each, as if uniting them 
all. “I was thinking of olden times. Your little family, 
Keats, is the real culmination of the old theories of life, that 
you have so often heard us talk about.” Jean and Cornie 
nodded. 

“Be true to your soul-desires! ” Jean admonished. 

“And constant to your heart-calls,” Cornie added. 

“But seek to unify the two,” Clare told them with unusual 
intensity. 

“You mean self-expression—that is true happiness,” Keats 
explained her statement. 

“To enjoy the beautiful, to hope, to pray, are the cardinal 
precepts of self-expression,” Jean explained, in the deeper 
knowledge of his maturity. 

“And the most important of these?” Keats inquired. 

“To enjoy the Beautiful. It covers all experience—every¬ 
thing,” Jean answered. 

“But does it include Innocence ? ” Cornelia asked her hus¬ 
band with a quizzical glance. 

“To enjoy the Beautiful to the utmost, Man must see— 
must feel—through innocent eyes—through the soul of his 
own child! ” was his fervent reply. “Souls are only satisfied 
with Souls as their Toys ” 


THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 365 


From THE WORLD OF PASSION, THE UNI¬ 
VERSE OF BUSINESS and THE CONTINENT OF 
SOUL LIFE, Men and Women are ever starting on their 
life journeys. Soon they are caught in the shower of me¬ 
teoric rocks and stones thrown off from CLASHING 
WORLDS; ambition, lust, jealousy, deceit, hit them; bruise 
them; recreate them! 

Seeking the Harbor of Forgetfulness, they roam THE 
SEAS OF PLEASURE until they are landed on THE 
MOUNTAINS OF LOVE by SHIFTING WINDS, 
which have hurled them to and fro like whisps of straw! 

In THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE, the immortal soul, 
like an impassive Buddha, regards its playthings: Men and 
Women sinking in the water’s swirl to a bottomless pit of 
unsatiated desires; rising on the waves of attained wishes; 
circling through Birth, Love, Marriage, Divorce, Death, back 
to Birth again; dashing one against the other! Strange en¬ 
counters ! Wives and mistresses—Nuns and prostitutes— 
Priests and libertines—Saints and sinners! Soul Toys for 
the Unborn! 

And above, THE HEAVEN OF MOTHERHOOD 
beckons to all women and demands the veneration of all 
mankind! The light of the tiny child-stars shining there will 
lead the undaunted voyagers at last to CITIES OF RE¬ 
FUGE from the Storms of Life. 

To-day all Humanity is struggling and striving to re¬ 
lease its soul from the shackles of Materialism, War, and 
Industrial Strife that the Coming Generation may be con¬ 
ceived in Love—born with eyes open to Beauty—christened 
under Religion’s protecting wing and find the full fruition 
of righteous soul desires when the Spirit of Heaven shall 
rule the Man of Dust! 










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